Heat vs. Pacers: Five Reasons Indiana Is the Butthole of America, From a Guy Who Lived There
The Miami Heat take on the Indiana Pacers tonight in Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals. It promises to be a fine basketball contest. The Heat are without the advantage of Chris Bosh. LeBron James is gonna go cobradick, and Rony Turiaf has promised to do more dancing.
#6: Its seal appears to depict a man chasing after a buffalo with an ax.
Nobody knows who's on the Pacers, but apparently they're pretty good. (Seriously, check out this Yahoo! preview of the game that doesn't mention one Indiana player's name.)
But we're interested in the culture clash between Miami and Indiana. Ha, I said culture and Indiana in the same sentence! I spent four years at a small Quaker college in Indiana. I was drunk about eighty percent of the time. But what I remember was harrowing.
Here, then, are a few reasons Indiana is the Applebee's-evacuating bunghole of America. I know sometimes alt-weeklies write such lists to goad alt-weekly writers in the opposing place into a flame war. Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm trying to provoke the staff of the Muncie Industrial Hollerer.
5. DUI Mopeds. Here's an anecdote that should tell you all you need to know about Indiana. Groups of men there share one moped. When one of them gets busted for a DUI, they have a sad little party where that guy is bequeathed the scooter. Turns out in Indiana, you can still drive a moped even if your license is suspended for a DUI. I thought for sure I had made this up. Then this morning I found this article and this one. The latter article tells the sad story of a drunk middle-aged man with a suspended license crashing his scooter into a minivan and injuring his head, as lamented by the dude's dad. Here's the daily scene during Indiana's winters: burly dudes scooting across the intersection in the driving snow to get to Racetrac-- that's the stupid name of the convenience store chain there-- to buy chaw and Natty Ice.
4. Raper RVS. The claim to fame of my college town-- Richmond, Indiana-- is the nation's biggest RV dealership. The guy who owns this dealership apparently cared naught that his name was RAPER, for he decided to not only name the business after himself, but billboard the entire state with highway signs, every few hundred feet, telling you what exit to take to get Raped.
3. Gary. There's something cleansing about driving through the horrifying industrial hell of Gary, Indiana, before crossing the border into Illinois with the awesome skyline of Chicago opening up in front of you like civilization at long last. From Route 90, Gary looks like what I imagine the war-torn industrial provinces of Eastern Europe look like. It's all flaming smokestacks, towering warrens of wires, and barren, unlit streets. No, I've never pulled off the highway for a closer peek. I'm irrationally afraid I'll start working in a gas station there, with a dog named Wrinkles who I'll constantly kick. It's Michael Jackson's hometown. Doesn't that say it all?
2. Food. Indianapolis's culinary specialty is... the cafeteria. Remember to pack your appetite and your hairnets, LeBron and Dwyane!
1. The Indy 500. You know how visiting dignitaries-- presidents and royalty-- sometimes go to American sporting events to experience our pastimes? You will never see a prime minister at the Indy 500. We don't want the rest of the world to know about the infield party. Behold... Indiana: