God rest ye, Billy; a return to Friday 'blogs.

Dusk was rapidly cloaking the Pennsylvania countryside and I, becoming intensely fearful that nothing but a 1995 Toyota Corolla separated me from the corn-fed, monstrous radioactive deer that stalk the countryside in that forsaken state, nearly missed the sign.

Wheeling, WV 13

Unnatural excitement began to radiate through my body, from my bones outward, and I realized that I'd neglected to blink for several minutes. Wheeling. WHEELING.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeling.

I am sure that this is the point where you are expecting me to explain why it is that I was tenting up in my khakis at the thought of going to Wheeling, WV. "Lord, I bet it's something fecked", you think. You'd have every reason to believe it, as my motivations are often mysterious even to myself.

Would you believe that it's because of a Billy Joel song? Is that fecked-up enough for you? I thought so.

From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and West of the Rio Grande

- Billy Joel, "The Ballad of Billy the Kid"

Magical, no? Well, even Billy Joel admits to taking some liberties with the song. And by "liberties" I mean "he made it all up ALL OF IT YES IT'S ALL MADE UP." Including, sadly, the fact that Billy the Kid was from West Virginia, as he was actually from (gasp!) New York City.

Nonetheless, there I was, at this point less than five miles from Wheeling, and I just HAD TO GO THERE WAS NO OPTION NO THERE WAS NOT LEAVE ME ALONE. I glanced down at the gas gauge and saw that it was laying, tender and lover-like, upon the "E". No time like the present to gas up, I thought, and guided MCBess toward a Pilot station.

When I am traveling, I take special pains to stop at Flying Js or Pilots, as they provide several critical amenities for me.

1) Distilled fossil fuels.
2) Embalmed meats and carbonated fructose beverages.
3) Restrooms that nobody will eye-stab you for using without purchasing something.
4) Ethnographic BONANZA, both in terms of clientele and artifacts.

After fueling up and nabbing a cola and a "beef and cheese" Slim Jim product, I found myself at a rather large magnet display. "Something that says 'Wheeling'", I murmured, turning the rack again and again.

Bupkus.

No hats, no shirts, no magnets, no snowglobes. People: how hard is it to print the word "Wheeling" on something, honestly?

I selected a magnet that showed a lovely West Virgina gristmill and another that said "Philippi Covered Bridge." I went to the checkout and an older woman in a festive holiday (Halloween) sweater greeted me with what can only be described as the sound of someone attempting to gargle tuna.

Consumptive Old Woman: This it?
Me: Um, yeah. Hey: where is this covered bridge? Is it in...oh, I dunno...Wheeling?
COW: [looking down] I don't know.
Me: [crestfallen] OK. Well, do you know where it is in West Virgina? I have relatives in Auto - the Renick/Lewisburg area.
COW: Again, I don't know. I live in goddamn Pennsylvania, all right? God.

I got back on the highway and called my sister.

Julie: What the hell do you want?
Dom: Go on Wikipedia.
Julie: No.
Dom: Do it NOW.
Julie: Fine, fecker. [clickety clickety click]
Dom: Look up Philippi Covered Bridge, West Virginia.
Julie: Why?
Dom: That is a question that is between me and the ages. Just look it up now.
Julie: It's in Philippi. (http://users.hrea.coop/post/philippi.html)
Dom: GODDAMN IT.
[hangs up]

This left only one option: I needed YES I SAID NEEDED to go to Wheeling itself, as I was not about to leave Wheeling without SOMETHING with that word on it.

From the bridge, Wheeling looks cozy and precious, flanked on one side by the mighty Ohio River and appears to be filled with historic buildings of antiquey sweetness. Wheeling at night, though, on a dank, cold late fall evening, was quite a different story. Neon signs advertised all-male boarding houses, and legions of street people roved the narrow lanes. That which looked to be cozy and antiquey before now appeared to be more urban decay than anything, and, fearing that I would be attacked for my Maine plates, I attempted to make a hasty exit.

Left turn. Right turn. Left again. Where the hell was I? Where were the signs that would point me toward the river of traffic that was 70 West? Was that a corpse merrily afloat in the ashy Ohio?

I finally found my way, having refused several window treatments at stoplights - one offered from a man whose bottle looked to have been filled with urine - and, keyed up and melancholy at once, I crossed into Ohio. I have to admit, though, that I looked back, much as Lot's wife had done.

I love you, Wheeling. I don't have any idea why, but I do. And I'll be back.

When it's daylight.

Until next Friday, I remain,

Domonic (OK,soIhaveaproblem) Potorti