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           C  H  I  P  ' S    C  L  O  S  E  T     C  L  E  A  N  E  R

               Humor  *  Trivia  *  Pop Culture  *  Fun
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                              I S S U E   N O.  9,  P A R T  I I

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            All contents (c) copyright Chip Rowe or individual authors.
            E-mail: chip@playboy.com (faster) or chiprowe@reach.com

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            CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER NO. 11 NOW AVAILABLE!

            The latest issue of CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER -- 28 pages of 
            humor, trivia, pop culture and fun -- is now available for 
            $3 plus $1 postage from Chip Rowe, 175 North Harbor Dr.,
            Chicago, IL 60601-7358.  

                       Unseen Spinal Tap! 
                          Zine and Book Reviews 
                               Why I Love Swear Words
                                   My Girlfriend Wears My Favorite T-Shirts 
                                           Catalog from Hell
                                                 50 Ways To Say You Masturbate 
                                                       and Much More!

         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

                CHIP'S CLOSET CLEANER NO. 10 NOW AVAILABLE!
                          
                   Normal People Who Collect Odd Stuff
                         Dentists on Film
                               Weekly World News Index
                                   World's Largest Musical Fountain
                                             TV Mantras
                                                   Zine Reviews
                                                          Walter Cronkite's Favorite Color 
                                                                  $2 plus $1 postage

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      contents CONTENTS contents CONTENTS contents CONTENTS 
    + 
    +                    Get Out of Jury Duty
    +                    Cheat on the SAT
    +                    Chip Goes to Europe
    +                    And Various Other Fun

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                                                CHIP TRIP

                     Almost to the hour after I returned home 
                     from my college graduation, a neighbor in 
                     tiny Grand Haven, Michigan, inquired about 
                     my plans. "Europe," I said, with a need-you-
                     ask shrug. "Gotta find myself."

                     Okay, so it wasn't the most original plan: 
                     Thousands of fresh-faced grads embark for 
                     the Lite Continent each year. Many are content 
                     to sightsee, bounce between boutiques or 
                     taste-test the local brews. Me, I had a 
                     different plan. I'd spend a few months 
                     working in London, then use my earnings to 
                     traipse around Europe. The experience, I 
                     thought, would squeeze the last bit of 
                     adolescence from my cells. I would return a Man. 

                     LONDON, 12 weeks
                     I had anxious knots in my stomach for a week 
                     but found a flat and a job as a secretary. When 
                     spring came, I hoisted my pack and began my 
                     journey.

                     GALWAY, IRELAND, 1 week
                     I stayed with an American couple who had moved 
                     to western Ireland in the early 1970s to get 
                     "close to the earth," i.e. no phone, no 
                     electricity, and hand-mixed mueslix for breakfast. 
                     The four kids got excited when the new 
                     National Geographic arrived and knew nothing 
                     of celebrities such as Magic Johnson. "What is 
                     he called again?" asked the 11-year-old. "Wonder 
                     Boy?"

                     To pass the time, we played checkers. I slept 
                     soon after dusk and rose soon after dawn, but 
                     my pioneer spirit has been so dulled by modern 
                     technology (not taking a shower every morning 
                     fulfilled my sense of adventure) that after 
                     three days I was ready to move on.
                     
                     I traveled by ferry to the Aran Islands, off 
                     the coast. The monks who lived there centuries 
                     ago shaved their hair in front and grew it 
                     long in back as a sign of devotion, so I felt 
                     welcome somehow. As I walked along the island's 
                     cold, rocky terrain, the thin stone beneath 
                     my feet crackled like fall leaves. 
                     
                     When I reached the edge of the 100-meter 
                     cliffs and the crashing waves below, I spread 
                     my arms in triumph and ate the limp peanut 
                     butter sandwich in my pocket. Ah, life! I 
                     felt very alone.

                     PARIS, 1 week
                     At Notre Dame, the musty air gave me a bloody 
                     nose and I had to ask suspicious passersby 
                     for tissues. From there, I moved to the 
                     Pompidou museum, full of artistic wonders 
                     like a statue made of cassette tape ribbon. 
                     I also stopped by a grocery, where I bought 
                     $7 worth of cookies, pasta and soda and 
                     flirted with the cashier. The next day I 
                     covered Versailles, home of Sun King Louis 
                     XVI, and wife Marie Antoniette, Queen of 
                     Faux Pas. In the backyard was "Le Hameau," 
                     a tiny village that Marie had built so she 
                     could pretend she was a peasant. Kinky.

                     MONTPELIER, FRANCE, 2 days
                     Waiting in the square, a plop of pigeon poop 
                     landed on the chair beside me. A near miss. 
                     I was filled with optimism.

                     SANT FELIU DE GUIXOLS, SPAIN, 2 days
                     Arrived at this small resort north of Barcelona 
                     to visit a family I knew. We ate a traditional 
                     Cantalon dinner: toast rubbed with tomato, 
                     garlic and olive oil, then steak and red 
                     wine. The father told me in broken English 
                     how much he liked Californian wine. I said 
                     I'd never been to California. He looked 
                     perplexed. When I spoke Spanish, he looked 
                     even more perplexed.

                     Sylvie, the hearty German wife, took me to 
                     an English class she was teaching and had 
                     me speak "American." Soon the students were 
                     slapping hands and yelling, "Hey man, give 
                     me five!" We also visited younger students, 
                     who chose to describe my nose as "grande." 
                     Isn't that cute?

                     BARCELONA, 3 days
                     Spent the morning weaving my way through 
                     the local market, past stalls piled high 
                     with birds and books. At the fish stalls, 
                     shoppers presented Tupperware to the merchants 
                     to fill with sardines. Outside stood a 
                     statue of Christopher Columbus, facing America. 
                     Stopped by the Picasso museum and studied 
                     some of his childhood sketches, which sucked.

                     TOLEDO, 1 day
                     Toured the cathedral, where they pipe in 
                     string music so uplifting you're ready to 
                     repent for anything. There I bought a 
                     tiny cross to wear the rest of the trip; 
                     while traveling alone in strange lands, 
                     you consider your faith. That night, 
                     paid my pensione landlord for a hot shower 
                     and spent 45 minutes there until he heard 
                     his profits running down the drain and 
                     knocked impatiently on the door.

                     RIOMAGGIORE, ITALY, 1 day
                     Spent four days in Madrid, then hopped on 
                     the first of three trains to reach this 
                     town in northwestern Italy. During the hours 
                     I spent aboard trains, I usually slept or 
                     stared at the passing landscape and thought 
                     about a million and one things, my family, 
                     what I'd do after I returned home. Riding 
                     non-stop for 36 hours to reach Italy from 
                     Spain, I survived on thoughts of the steaming 
                     Italian cuisine that awaited me. Along the 
                     way, I heard the time-honored legends of 
                     bandits gassing cars to rob passengers, so 
                     in southern France I found an equally 
                     paranoid Australian and we set up a cabin 
                     as secure as a bank vault.

                     An hour after arriving in Riomaggiore, I 
                     sat down for a huge pasta dinner, the 
                     first authentic Italian food to ever pass 
                     my gullet. My mouth watering, I asked the 
                     owner to describe her best sauce. "It's 
                     like Ragu," she offered, without batting 
                     an eye.

                     FLORENCE, 3 days
                     I finished five gelattos in 36 hours, 
                     eating the last amid a flock of dervish 
                     pigeons. People feed them like pets, yet 
                     would they toss pieces of bread to hordes 
                     of rats if they converged on a public 
                     square? If pigeons ate the cigarette 
                     butts everyone drops, I'd like them better.

                     In Florence, I bandaged my blisters and 
                     limped to the Accademia. Inside, the 
                     breathtaking David. By this time, I thought 
                     of home every day. I didn't know if that 
                     meant I'd been gone too long or not long 
                     enough.

                     VATICAN AND ROME, 3 days
                     Just inside the doors of the stunning 
                     St. Peter's Cathedral, behind glass,
                     stood Michelangelo's pieta with the 
                     weight of Jesus in Mary's lap. Later, 
                     climbing the dome, an American teenager 
                     in front of me said, "They should 
                     install a water slide so it's easier to 
                     get down." Yeah, they should. Ya dope.

                     I walked through the Vatican museum 
                     and was intrigued by the ornate altar-
                     pieces. I wonder if they've led more 
                     believers to covet worldly riches than 
                     consider those of the next. In the 
                     galleries, the church had painted fig 
                     leaves over the genitals of every nude, 
                     so I dropped a polite protest in the
                     comments box. In the Sistine Chapel, 
                     I took a photo of the floor, just for 
                     fun.

                     Back in Rome, I enjoyed the Forum ruins, 
                     although it was a bummer to find the 
                     House of the Vestal Virgins had decayed 
                     into four concrete slabs around an
                     empty pool.

                     VENICE, 1 day
                     Arrived by night train and took a 
                     vaperetto to St. Mark's Cathedral, which 
                     was built entirely with stolen riches 
                     so that it looks more like a flea market 
                     than a church. Even St. Mark's body was 
                     smuggled in. An impressive tile mosaic 
                     covered the floor, which rolled like 
                     soft waves over the sinking soil below. 
                     From there, I wandered until lost.

                     VIENNA, 2 days
                     Visited the Secessionist Museum and in 
                     the basement imagined myself as the 
                     shining knight in Gustav Klimt's famous 
                     mural. I trooped to Schloss Schonburg, 
                     the once-ruling Hapsburg's summer place. 
                     Though I'd begun to suffer opulence
                     overload, the porcelain wallpaper left 
                     me stunned. Nothing stayed with me as 
                     long as the blind boy I saw afterwards 
                     begging in the street, especially when 
                     a woman passing by cupped his face and 
                     kissed him.

                     SALZBURG, 3 days
                     Climbed to the town castle, where the 
                     invading Napoleon once burned priceless 
                     furniture to stay warm. Isn't that what's  
                     bound to happen? All those museum
                     antiques will someday keep a forgotten 
                     soul warm in the night, and she'll 
                     probably be a robot.

                     In the Sound of Music tradition (it was 
                     filmed here), I ended the day lost in
                     an underground parking garage, thinking 
                     it was some secret passage into the 
                     mountains.

                     DACHAU, 1 day
                     The most sullen moment at this, the 
                     Nazis' first concentration camp, was
                     standing in the "shower" stall. Although 
                     it was never used, the nearby ovens 
                     were, and the fact that someone built 
                     the thing is evil enough for me. All 
                     around you, children on school tours 
                     laugh and joke, which is unsettling in 
                     itself. When the prisoners first arrived 
                     some 50 years ago, they were ushered
                     through a gate the Nazis had inscribed 
                     with the words, "Work will make you
                     free."

                     BUCHLOE, Bavaria, 1 day
                     Sitting on a dirty train station floor, 
                     I crushed one of three flies that
                     buzzed my backpack, which seemed 
                     heavier each day. I'd hit the wall. 

                     INTERLAKEN, SWITZERLAND, 3 days
                     Hiked the Alps in sneakers. It was 
                     overcast, but no matter; the hillsides 
                     were covered with lush green fields 
                     dotted with wildflowers. It was a 
                     majestic place, the kind you miss 
                     even before you leave. During the 
                     third day, I discovered a broken 
                     bridge across the top of a waterfall. 
                     Feeling adventurous, I had decided to jump 
                     to the other side until I spotted a group 
                     of schoolchildren below and imagined them 
                     screaming as my body tumbled past. I 
                     climbed down.

                     BACHASS, GERMANY, 1 day
                     Took a cruise down the Rhine river, 
                     which was peaceful except for the American 
                     fighter planes constantly roaring overhead. 
                     The river banks were green with grapevines 
                     and wildlife and the Rhine brown with something.

                     MAINZ, GERMANY, 1 day
                     Sat in the park and fixed a cheese and 
                     tomato sandwich to eat before I caught a 
                     train to Berlin. Proceeded to gash my finger. 
                     After bandaging the wound with foot blister 
                     pads, I headed off to find a doctor. A taxi 
                     driver took me to a pharmacy. The pharmacist 
                     sent me to an allergist. The allergist sent 
                     me to a urologist. The urologist put me on 
                     Bus 29 to the hospital. The hospital gave 
                     me a form. Finally, a kindly doctor wrapped 
                     me up. I promised to write.

                     After touring the nearby Guttenberg Museum, 
                     I ate a mass-produced hamburger at McDonald's 
                     in tribute to the printer's innovations.
                     
                     BERLIN, 2 days
                     Shared a train cabin to Berlin with a guy 
                     named Boris. Arrived at 6 a.m., found a place 
                     to stay, and visited the zoo. Impressed by 
                     one animal that could lick its own nose.

                     Later I walked along the remains of the 
                     Berlin Wall to Checkpoint Charlie (since gone). 
                     Haggled with a guy renting hammers, then pounded 
                     away at communism's shell until I had a blister 
                     like a button in the center of my palm.

                     AMSTERDAM, 2 days
                     After canvassing the museums, I wandered 
                     through Amsterdam's infamous red light 
                     district (they hang Christmas bulbs to mark 
                     the boundaries) and counted perversions. 
                     In one store, they had 4,000 square feet 
                     of sex magazines (or so I heard, mom). 
                     Notecards were tacked along each shelf, 
                     for easy browsing. Outside, the prostitutes 
                     who danced in the windows were nothing like 
                     the warm, sexy hookers in the movies. Where 
                     was Julia Roberts?

                     LONDON, 3 days
                     The day I flew home, I still wasn't sure if 
                     I wanted to be here or there, or anywhere. 
                     But after holding my own for two months in an 
                     unfamiliar land, where they didn't speak my 
                     language or eat the food I ate, or know who 
                     I was or what I was doing, I did feel better. 
                     As one friend who had also done Europe told 
                     me later, "After sitting in a dark train 
                     station at 2 a.m., feeling very grimy, with 
                     no money, no place to sleep and nothing to 
                     eat but a rock-hard Zagnut bar, moving from 
                     backwoods Michigan to Washington to find a 
                     job doesn't seem like such a big deal." She 
                     was right. Sure, I was still geeky looking, 
                     still had stubborn acne, a lopsided gait and 
                     chicken-wing biceps. But inside surged the 
                     strength of a Man.

                                 ------------------------------------------------

                                            CAR TROUBLES

                                             By Matt Wolka

                     In college, I owned a 1962 Austin Healy 
                     Sprite, a teeny blue roadster. Like any old 
                     British sports car owner, I loved my Sprite 
                     despite its impracticality: I was willing to 
                     give up the amenities of seatbelts, windows, 
                     a roof, brakes and a speedometer for the thrill 
                     of the open air and the jealous stares of 
                     other motorists.

                     In March of my senior year, my friend Tim and 
                     I decided to drive from Chicago to New Orleans 
                     to catch some good music, Cajun food and a few 
                     strings of perch. Most people would shudder at 
                     the thought of a 1,500-mile journey in a car 
                     built before JFK died, but I had driven the 
                     Sprite on quite a few long trips (including a 
                     13-hour marathon between Missouri and North 
                     Carolina during which I sustained a sunburn so 
                     severe my face looked like five-day-old spoiled 
                     meat). Vanity has no fear. That Saturday, Tim 
                     and I packed the car until it could hold no 
                     more sleeping bags, clothes, tents, coolers, or 
                     fishing equipment. We vowed not to take any 
                     freeways, but to enjoy the scenery, stopping 
                     whenever we could. It was cloudy and 55 degrees. 
                     We both wore six layers of clothing and hoped 
                     it wouldn't rain, since the car didn't have a 
                     top.

                     We cruised down Lake Shore Drive. The car 
                     burbled happily. We had planned to have lunch 
                     with our Lithuanian friend Audra on the South 
                     side. However, an ominous ticking sound began 
                     emanating from the hood.  
                     
                     "What do you think that is?" asked Tim, who 
                     foolishly trusted me about all things automotive.

                     "I'm not sure," I said confidently. "We'll 
                     check it out at Audra's."

                     We arrived at Audra's with our ticking blue car 
                     around 1 p.m. At lunch, we regaled her with 
                     tales of our upcoming journey, boasted about 
                     the size and number of fish we would catch, 
                     and otherwise marveled at ourselves. When we 
                     finished, I popped open the Sprite's hood 
                     and started the engine. 

                     The ticking came from the engine. I turned 
                     off the engine, opened the valve cover and 
                     looked inside. It looked like an engine. Tim 
                     and Audra agreed that it looked like an engine. 
                     I put the valve cover back on. I checked the oil. 
                     
                     "Well," I said. "I have no idea what it is."

                     "Do you think we should go back?" Tim asked, 
                     obviously disappointed at the prospect of our 
                     trip ending so soon.
                     
                     "The ticking doesn't seem bad," I reassured him. 
                     "I think we could make it."

                     "All right!" Tim and I climbed back into 
                     the car. "Bye, Audra!" 

                     We left Audra's at 2:30 p.m. Soon grain 
                     elevators and Illinois countryside enveloped us. 
                     The ticking grew louder, and I slowed to 40 mph.

                     "Maybe we should have someone check it," I 
                     suggested. Tim agreed and we pulled over to a 
                     garage in Monee, Illinois.

                     The mechanic on duty listened intently. "Sounds 
                     like it might be the crankshaft -- in which 
                     case you'd have to get a whole new engine -- or 
                     it might just be something minor."

                     "Can we drive on it?" I asked.

                     "Sure. As long as you take it easy, like 40 mph."

                     "Do you think we could make it to St. Louis?"

                     "I don't see why not."

                     My parents lived in St. Louis and I figured 
                     my dad would have a good idea how to get this 
                     fixed. "Do you want to go back to Evanston 
                     and take your car?" I asked Tim.

                     "No. Do you think we can make it to St. Louis?"

                     I brimmed with optimism. "Sure! We'll go 
                     through Decatur."

                     We drove away from Monee, ticking, ticking. 
                     At Kankakee, we stopped for coffee. The sun 
                     was beginning to set. "Should we push on?" we 
                     asked each other. "Sure!"

                     The ticking grew louder. I slowed to 30 mph. 
                     Suddenly, the engine made a sound that I hope 
                     to never hear again; the sound of an engine 
                     dying. Metal warping, springs springing, 
                     strange beats, thumps, singing sounds, screams, 
                     and then...silence. The pedals went to the floor.

                     "That's it," I said as we coasted to a stop 
                     in a field. We were 15 miles from the nearest 
                     town and about a mile from a farmhouse. We 
                     decided to stay with the car and wait. Since 
                     it didn't have any emergency flashers, I left 
                     the headlights on until the battery died.

                     A strong wind started blowing and cleared the 
                     sky of clouds. Tim pulled out a pack of cigarettes 
                     and we both took one. Then we went through a 
                     book of matches in a vain attempt to light them. 
                     After five or six minutes, a Corvette came down 
                     the road. It stopped. "Need any help?" the 
                     attractive female driver asked.

                     "Yes," I said, imagining myself as James 
                     Bond -- only with car trouble. "But first I 
                     need a light." I waved the cigarette casually.

                     "Oh, sure." She pushed her car lighter in.

                     "My car is broken," I said. "If you could send 
                     the police or a tow truck, I would appreciate it."
                     
                     She lit my cigarette. "I will," she said with 
                     a smile, rolling up her window. She left.

                     Ten minutes later, we saw a station wagon pull 
                     out of the farmhouse driveway and come speeding 
                     down the road towards us. "Saved," I thought. 
                     "Some hot chocolate will be nice."

                     The farmer leaned out his window. "Hey! You 
                     guys are parked in my field."

                     "Yes, sir. Our car broke down."

                     "Well, you can't stay there all night. You'll 
                     freeze to death."

                     I was about to say, "Thank you for your kind 
                     offer to take us to your house while we wait 
                     for the tow truck." But the farmer put the 
                     station wagon in reverse and drove backwards 
                     all the way back to his house.

                     We had been in the field for about an hour 
                     when two police cruisers came screaming up, 
                     sirens wailing and lights flashing. They 
                     shined a spotlight on us and told us to 
                     put our hands up and not move. Three police 
                     officers cautiously approached us. When they 
                     saw we were not armed, they put their guns 
                     away. "Whose car is this?" one asked menacingly.

                     "Mine," I answered.

                     "Let me see the registration." I handed him 
                     the registration. "Where you headed?"

                     "New Orleans."

                     "And what's in New Orleans?"

                     Tim answered between pictures he was taking 
                     of the police cars, "Catfish, alligators, and 
                     graves above the ground."

                     "We were just going on vacation," I said.

                     The two other officers began searching through 
                     the car. One picked up a dried maple leaf that 
                     had fallen into the footwell and sniffed it 
                     suspiciously. The other pulled out my small 
                     hunting knife and said dramatically, "What's 
                     this?"

                     "A hunting knife," I said.

                     "Oh." He put the knife back. "What's in the trunk?"

                     I clamped my hand over Tim's mouth because he 
                     was about to say, "You don't want to look in 
                     there" (from the film "Repoman"), and I knew 
                     the cops wouldn't get it. "Mostly camping stuff," 
                     I blurted. "Go ahead and look if you want."

                     The cop lifted the hood a few inches and then 
                     closed it again. "Okay," he said. "We'll call 
                     a tow truck. The nearest town is Gilman. They'll 
                     tow you there."

                     Half an hour later, one of the giant tow trucks 
                     they use with disabled semitractors pulled up 
                     in front of the Sprite. The Sprite was the 
                     size of a roller skate. The driver towed us 
                     to Gilman. When we arrived, he said, "I need to 
                     put some gas in my truck before I take your 
                     car around back to the storage lot. Do you mind?"

                     "No," I said. He started pumping gas while Tim 
                     and I sat on the fender dejectedly.

                     A Pontiac Firebird full of Illinois redneck 
                     girls pulled up next to the tow truck. Beer 
                     bottles clinked inside the car as they asked us, 
                     "Can you tell us how to get to Onarga?"

                     "Next town down," I answered as laconically as 
                     possible. Then, desperately trying to salvage 
                     a terrible day, I pointed to my dead Sprite. 
                     "That's my car."

                     The girls turned for an instant. "Sorry," they 
                     said, and sped off to Onarga.

                     Tim and I ate dinner at the truck stop 
                     and tried to hash out a game plan. The 
                     interstate ran by half a mile away so we 
                     could hitch a ride back to Chicago, or Amtrak 
                     ran through the town, so we could take the train 
                     back (but not until 9:30 the next morning). We 
                     decided to attempt both. We would try to hitch 
                     a ride until the train came and take the 
                     train if no one offered us a ride.

                     We grabbed two duffel bags of camping 
                     equipment and clothes and walked to the 
                     highway. It was about 9 p.m. At 11:30 p.m., 
                     we walked back to the truck stop figuring 
                     no one would pick up a hitchhiker after dark 
                     and we'd just have to wait until morning. 
                     Also, we risked losing fingers and toes to 
                     frostbite if we stayed out there any longer. 
                     We ate again. Truck stop breakfast at midnight.
                     Then we hung out in the lobby near the phones, 
                     alternately trying to get a ride from one of 
                     the truckdrivers and sleeping in the phone 
                     booths as best we could.

                     Dawn came and we walked back to the highway. 
                     I was terminally tired and depressed. At 8 a.m., 
                     a van got off the highway and the driver waved. 
                     We had a ride!

                     "Where you guys headed?"

                     "North side of Chicago."

                     "Hop in. I'm going to Wisconsin, but I can drop 
                     you off somewhere."

                     Tim got in the front seat and I got in the 
                     back. It was filled with household furnishings, 
                     a potted plant and piles of clothes. "I hope 
                     you don't mind, but I have to stop every few 
                     exits," our friendly driver started. "I got 
                     diarrhea. So I have to stop pretty often and 
                     use the john. That's why I stopped back 
                     there in Gilman. You guys are lucky; you should 
                     have a sign."

                     "I pick up a lot of hitchhikers," he continued, 
                     "but I think you're more likely to get a ride 
                     if you have a sign for where you're going. I 
                     remember picking up this hitchhiker once. 
                     I asked him where he was going and he said, 
                     'Nowhere.' I asked him where he was coming from 
                     and he said, 'Nowhere.' He was the damn Nowhere 
                     man."

                     "So, what takes you to Wisconsin?" Tim asked. 
                     Tim was from Wisconsin. 

                     "Going up there to get married, again."

                     "Again?" I asked.

                     "Yeah, would you believe it?  My first wife 
                     turned out to be a lesbian."

                     I'm not sure if it was a midnight truck stop 
                     pancake or just the whole chain of events, but 
                     I was suddenly very nauseous. "I need to 
                     throw up," I told our driver.

                     "Just tell me when and I'll pull over," he said 
                     enthusiastically.

                     "I think you should pull over now," I said 
                     urgently. He did and I slid open the van door 
                     and began vomiting violently on the side of 
                     the road.

                     "If you can't get it all out, just stick your 
                     finger down your throat," he shouted. "That's 
                     what I do!"

                     I finished vomiting. We got back on the road. 
                     At the next exit, we pulled off so the van man 
                     could ease his diarrhea. I puked in the parking 
                     lot of the gasoline station. I figured it was 
                     convenient that I could puke whenever we made 
                     a diarrhea stop. But the driver returned. "I 
                     think my diarrhea is done with," he announced. 
                     We got back on the road. I continually felt the 
                     need to vomit. "Well, we can't keep stopping!" 
                     he said, glancing around the cabin of the van.

                     He grabbed something. "Here, puke in this potato 
                     chip bag." He handed me a sour cream and onion 
                     potato chip bag which only made me vomit with 
                     more vigor.

                     "How did you end up in Gilman?" the guy asked 
                     Tim, trying to ignore the retching sounds coming 
                     from the back of his van. Tim told him our story. 

                     "Damn cops," the driver responded. "I got 
                     stopped down on the Georgia/Florida line on my 
                     way up here. The cop said, 'If you've got any 
                     drugs, you better give them to me now or I'll 
                     have the dogs go through your truck.' Well, what 
                     am I supposed to do? So I had a little bag of 
                     seed and I gave him that. He took it and dumped 
                     some of it on the ground, took my license and 
                     registration, and drove off with it. He just 
                     left the bag of seed right there so I got most 
                     of it back. I don't know where he went with my 
                     license."

                     We had him drop us off at 94 and Dempster. I 
                     walked to Lutheran General Hospital and checked 
                     into the emergency room. I had to fill out six 
                     forms. I tried not to get vomit on them. I couldn't 
                     give them a urine sample so they put me in a bed, 
                     pulled the curtains, and left.

                     Tim took a cab to Evanston, got his car, and 
                     drove back to the hospital. He found me in the 
                     emergency ward.     

                     "How long are you going to be in here?" he 
                     asked.

                     "They say I have to give them a urine sample," 
                     I said.

                     "Let's get out of here."

                     I agreed, put my clothes on, and walked out. 
                     Tim dropped me off at my apartment. He shrugged. 
                     "Bad weekend."

                     "Yeah. I'll give you a call."

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