Despite being the “Crossroads of America,” I don’t think the rest of America really remembers Indiana exists.
Despite being the “Crossroads of America,” I don’t think the rest of America really remembers Indiana exists. The only people who really give a fuck about this state are the 400,000 rednecks that congregate every May on the south side of Indianapolis for “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.” For all you assholes who don’t happen to follow auto-racing, that’s the Indy 500, duh! People travel from around the world to witness, as I’d like to think of it, a way seedier Kentucky Derby. With cars. Oh, and instead of the horses only going around the track once, the cars go around the track 200 times. It takes way longer. So that means there’s more time for beer, tits and sunburns.
I live and go to school in Bloomington, Indiana. It’s a nice college town tucked away in the hills of Monroe County. If you don’t want to read this, just watch the movie “Breaking Away,” and you’ll find out everything you need to know about Bloomington. It’s one of the greatest sports movies of all time, starring Dennis Quaid.
Just like any other college town, Bloomington has inflated beer and weed prices and a whole lot of assholes trying to find themselves. Since Indiana University also has one of the nation’s top business schools, there are a lot of douchey frat-bros that like to refer to each other as “faggot.” In order to house all of these invalids and their girlfriends, a handful or fraternities and sororities have been littered throughout campus. Most of these hell holes are concentrated on Third Street. It’s near impossible to ride your bike down this particular road without someone yelling “bike fag,” or “Lance.”
Only 17% of students participate in Greek life at Indiana University, meaning the other 83% have to fit in some other sort of social stereotype. My personal favorite are the crust punks that hang out in the downtown area. You can most likely find their smelly, dreadlocked, shitty-tattooed, Earth Crisis-loving, hairy asses occupying a seat at the local coffee shop sipping on a five dollar soy latte. Since Bloomington is a college town, that means a good portion of its’ residents are still living off their parents’ money, including the crust punks, which is really fucking funny. Anarchy? Yeah right.
Oh, and because being hip is so hip right now, a new crop of shitty laptop DJs have appeared, playing at another stupid dance party near you. Living here makes you want to hear Daft Punk no more times and kind of ruined M.I.A. for anyone that doesn’t suck.
Wait! But, no! Bloomington isn’t awful as I’ve made it sound. SHIT. Bloomington is so great. You can walk or ride your (fixed gear) bike everywhere. The farmer’s market is unlike any other. You can find any sort of ethnic restaurant you could ever imagine within two blocks. There is a MICROBREWERY. Upland Brewing Company makes the best IPA ever, and they have very tasty seasonals. Bars, bars, bars.
There is also good music. I promise. Epic weekends are made of basement shows, sitting on porches when the weather is nice enough, 32s of Miller High Life and a whole lot of PBR. The cops never really mind the loud music. Unless you are a fraternity hosting a DMX concert. Then they get really fucking pissed and start spraying everyone with mace. (That actually happened.) There are good record stores, good music venues. A lot of good bands play in Bloomington thanks to the fact that the record label, Secretly Canadian, is based here. Bloomington is a thriving little arts community amidst vast fields of corn. It may not be Williamsburg, but it’s good enough.