I left Chicago’s ball-shattering cold yesterday morning and drove south through Indiana.
As a result of my sojourn, I have concluded that Indiana is the most consistently ugly state in the Union, and I’ve been to all 50 of them.
Trudging at top speed through roughly three hundred miles of bleak, stark, flat, rusted, grey scenery, I came to realize that Indiana achieves a miracle by making Nebraska look inhabitable by comparison.
The only part of my ride that was visually compelling came right as I entered the state, with a brief sprint through the rotted industrial Hades known as Gary, AKA “Chicago’s Toilet.” Here’s a typical house in Gary:
What does it say about your state that its most scenic attraction is a crime-ridden warzone that looks like a hybrid of Dresden and Chernobyl?
Indiana is saddled with Delaware‘s inexplicable and unjustifiable uselessness, yet many of its residents have the gall to top it all off with a dumb sort of Texas pride. I’m sure the word “Hoosier” means something to a certain demographic—i.e., those dumb enough not to move from Indiana the moment such opportunity arises—but to me it means, “Someone who resides in Indiana without having seriously contemplated suicide.”
I’m typing this from a riverboat casino hotel at the southern tip of this ghastly state. The hotel’s Wikipedia page contains a passage that summarizes the state’s purposeless confusion and futility:
The 750-pound statue of Caesar will be put in storage until they figure out what to do with it.
In an hour or two I’ll be safely in Kentucky and headed further south. Until they figure out what to do with Indiana, I hope to never see it again. I’d suggest giving it back to the Indians, but I suspect that even they don’t want it.