First night in the Scranton area...not disappointed.

Scranton: The “Electric City”: dubbed this title in 1887 when the city successfully pioneered Pennsylvania’s first trolley line. Also, dubbed; Scranton: land of Pennsylvanians with New York accents.

After growing up in Erie, PA I am beginning to realize that there is a gravitational pull toward the state, as fore I cannot seem to escape being pulled back North to the ‘state of independence.’ Rolling into Dunmore, PA (a suburb of Scranton) I quickly realized that this is yet another Pennsylvanian town that its streets change names every quarter mile making following any sort of contemporary mapping technology nearly impossible. Regardless of being handcuffed by the lack of street signs and the limited accuracy of Google maps, I’ve arrived at the Sleep Inn nestled away in an industrial park off highway 81. Following the necessary hotel ‘check-in’ procedures, I do my business (nearly getting sucked down the toilet, yikes!...it works! Exhilarating.) I proceed to the recommended neighborhood grill/bar called The Loading Dock.

Driving through the Industrial Park, I find The Loading Dock, docked behind the ECO furniture store…classy. Strolling from my rental car to the restaurant I see a congregation outside the door of the establishment, as I come closer to the door I’m realizing that there is no line to get in this famous local joint, but rather a crew just following Big Ed’s 2008 CIAA law; prohibiting smoking inside public areas and workplaces. Seeing that there was about a baker’s dozen lingering in the cold, made me wonder if there was actually going to be any patron’s inside. I was not disappointed. I entered, the music seized, everyone stopped what they were doing and watched me as I took my place at the bar. I prefer sitting at the bar when traveling alone, it makes me feel less alone. I am sitting there next to my fellow businessmen, road warriors, and the occasional hitch-hiker all of whom is seeking something to stop them from spitting a sweater and maybe fill their stomach. I give the room a good look, decide not to sit next to someone that fits the profile of a serial killer and order myself a beer. I am fairly impressed with their offerings, seeing that they have a decent variety of imports and craft beers ranging from Dog Fish Head 90 Minute IPA to Delirium Tremens. Not too bad for a restaurant connected to the back of a furniture distribution center. I order an Ommegeddon Abbey Ale, delish. Sitting there watching Georgetown Univ. basketball team get slammed by WVU, I decide to take a look at menu. This is an easy decision. Big cursive letters indicate that I must order their signature NY strip steak.

Impressed with the steak, I am less impressed with the mashed potatoes that seemingly came from a box of Hungry Jack; a wee bit powdery. Being the mash potato connoisseur that I am, I am still amazed that my internal criticism of the smashed root was distracted by my eavesdropping of the surrounding conversation. A fellow around the corner of the bar was from Erie! Ahhh a fellow Erie-ite, again…that damn gravitational pull. However, this was the least shocking thing that I was witnessing. The Pepsi drinking 18 wheeler driver/ Navy vet was explaining to anyone that would listen that he was a beer geek. Drinking a Pepsi? Really? More shockingly, he was going on about Straub being one of America’s best beers. I hear this as I sip on my lovely Belgium Ale and resist spitting it back up (that would be a terrible waste), WHAT! STRAUB!? I go on to listen to this intriguing man. His next admission is likely a cardinal sin in Ireland: he puts salt in his Guinness and then goes on to be evangelical about this practice. That’d be ten Hail Mary’s.

I nearly walk out in disgust…but decide to take a detour, head call, my head is now clear. My Mother always said; if you can’t think of anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Well Mom, you should be very pleased. It took every bone in my body to not say anything to the neighboring “beer snob;” moron, ruining a perfectly good Guinness.
Dessert: I go ahead and order a 90 Minute as I scan the room.
Without going on much more of a tangent and going on about my perception of Scranton’s demography and how it still puzzles me how fit birds in power-suits are smitten over grease monkeys and cut-off t-shirt wearing dudes. Perhaps arranged marriages? Nah…this aint India. I cannot imagine what these folks must have in common, but to be a fly on their wall would be priceless.

I will conclude with the best line of the evening from the Navy Vet/ Beer Snob: “Light beer is like having sex in a canoe. It’s near water.”