In May, my friend Andre and I did a cross-country trip from his hometown of Detroit to Los Angeles. The idea was to poke along, driving no more than around 8 hours a day so we could enjoy the sites and not die when one of us falls asleep behind the wheel somewhere in Idaho.
Having woken up late in Madison, WI with a righteous hangover on Day 2, we made it as far as the border of Minnesota and South Dakota before deciding to stop for the night. If you've ever been to this part of the country, you know there are not a lot of options for lodging and late night entertainment. However, before losing cell reception 30 minutes earlier, we were able to locate an Indian casino just south of interstate 90 across the Iowa border. Given that we had spent the better part of our time in Detroit at casinos and their bars, it seemed like a safe bet. We exited county Highway 75 and cut south on a two lane back road that we hoped would get us there.
Having woken up late in Madison, WI with a righteous hangover on Day 2, we made it as far as the border of Minnesota and South Dakota before deciding to stop for the night. If you've ever been to this part of the country, you know there are not a lot of options for lodging and late night entertainment. However, before losing cell reception 30 minutes earlier, we were able to locate an Indian casino just south of interstate 90 across the Iowa border. Given that we had spent the better part of our time in Detroit at casinos and their bars, it seemed like a safe bet. We exited county Highway 75 and cut south on a two lane back road that we hoped would get us there.
One may think that the convergence of three exciting states like Minnesota, South Dakota and Iowa (I'm sure referred to in local parlance by the news affiliates as the "tri-state" area) would create some sort of vortex proven to balance your chakras and give you a diamond cutter for a hard on. That would be wrong. There's nothing but miles of dark road, shacks with cars on cinder blocks and cornfields. Lots of cornfields
After 30 minutes off the freeway in pitch black with no cell service and a grim feeling we were completely lost, we finally started having The Discussion. Namely, who would take it up the ass after being run off the road by a pickup truck while the other ran for help. It was beginning to get heated when we drove over a hill and found the Grand Falls Casino sitting in the middle of a cornfield miles from civilization. No joke, in the middle of a cornfield.
At check-in I noticed the flyer for the upcoming casino events. If Engelbert Humperdinck is making the trek all the way out here, it can't be that bad.
We dropped the bags in the room, hit the ATM, and sauntered up to the bar.
After 30 minutes off the freeway in pitch black with no cell service and a grim feeling we were completely lost, we finally started having The Discussion. Namely, who would take it up the ass after being run off the road by a pickup truck while the other ran for help. It was beginning to get heated when we drove over a hill and found the Grand Falls Casino sitting in the middle of a cornfield miles from civilization. No joke, in the middle of a cornfield.
At check-in I noticed the flyer for the upcoming casino events. If Engelbert Humperdinck is making the trek all the way out here, it can't be that bad.
We dropped the bags in the room, hit the ATM, and sauntered up to the bar.
"Good evening. What can I get for you?"
"I'll have a Jack, neat and a beer, please," I tell the bartender who did not look the least bit happy to see customers at midnight on a Tuesday.
"It'll be one or the other. Maximum of one drink per person every 20 minutes."
Apparently there are drink restrictions at a casino in the middle of nowhere. Is this a fucking joke? How do they expect to rape and eventually murder me at craps or blackjack if they won't let me drink myself ballsy with my own money? Let's be honest: how many Indians limit their drinks to three an hour?
...And how do they track that? I looked around the bar expecting to see at least a couple dozen digital kitchen timers counting down with post-its stuck to them describing the alcoholic they're moderating. Nothing but a crabby old man tapping his fingers, impatiently waiting for my order.
"Ok, ok," I say, "how about a double Jack?"
"Nope, one ounce liquor per drink."
"Really? How much do you put in a Martini?"
"I just told you: one ounce of liquor."
"Jesus Christ. Is it free?"
"8 bucks," he replies, not looking the least bit amused.
"Right then, I'll have a beer," I tell him, scanning the bottles on display. “A Grain Belt Premium."
"I'll have a Jack, neat and a beer, please," I tell the bartender who did not look the least bit happy to see customers at midnight on a Tuesday.
"It'll be one or the other. Maximum of one drink per person every 20 minutes."
Apparently there are drink restrictions at a casino in the middle of nowhere. Is this a fucking joke? How do they expect to rape and eventually murder me at craps or blackjack if they won't let me drink myself ballsy with my own money? Let's be honest: how many Indians limit their drinks to three an hour?
...And how do they track that? I looked around the bar expecting to see at least a couple dozen digital kitchen timers counting down with post-its stuck to them describing the alcoholic they're moderating. Nothing but a crabby old man tapping his fingers, impatiently waiting for my order.
"Ok, ok," I say, "how about a double Jack?"
"Nope, one ounce liquor per drink."
"Really? How much do you put in a Martini?"
"I just told you: one ounce of liquor."
"Jesus Christ. Is it free?"
"8 bucks," he replies, not looking the least bit amused.
"Right then, I'll have a beer," I tell him, scanning the bottles on display. “A Grain Belt Premium."
I've never heard of Grain Belt Premium but, as it looks like generic local brew, I can safely assume that it will get me drunk quicker and cheaper than 8 dollar snorts of whiskey or vodka and will at least keep my hands busy when I want to fidget before belting out a line by REO Speedwagon (I only bring up the last bit because shortly before arriving at the Grand Falls casino, I'd had another one-sided conversation about how great REO Speedwagon is based on one song: ‘Take It On The Run’. I have only one ally in this argument, Max, whom you'll hear about via Lompoc).
3 dollars later I receive this:
3 dollars later I receive this:
Had I not taken advantage of the casino's sluggish wifi to look this beer up, I would have figured it was bottled in a broom closet somewhere in the building with last night's swill bucket and dishwater. This shit's horrible. According to the website, it's brewed in St Paul, MN and is marketed as "The Friendly Beer". What the fuck does that even mean? Friendly like the fat girl at the bar with ashtray and sour beer breath that's eager to make out at the end of the night? Oh gee, thanks for the mouth herpes, Schell Brewing Company! That said, I still drank like 6 of them...
They do have a pretty cool hoodie on their website though.
I give Grain Belt Premium beer and the Grand Falls Casino a big limp one.
They do have a pretty cool hoodie on their website though.
I give Grain Belt Premium beer and the Grand Falls Casino a big limp one.
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