I am not particularly fond of Ohio for the following reasons:

• The state is flat and boring;
• There is a lot of it; and
• Ohio has a never ending supply of state police.

However, Ohio does have a few things going for it:

• Smoove J throws a bitchin’ Ohio State Michigan party regularly;
• Recurring Propeller Skies character The Beaver is from Ohizzy; and
• The Black Keys.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for Ohio, home of seven past presidents, I decided to stop in Columbus to meet The Geographer on my way from Atlanta to Lakewood, New York.

[The following conversations were edited for clarity. By edited for clarity, we mean pretty much made up, although the concept is accurate - Ed.]

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is Smoove D and I’m a few miles south of Columbus.”

“I forgot you were coming through town today and I have plans, want to go to a salmon roast?”

“Sure, why not? ” A salmon roast? What kind of bourgeoisie shit is this? My people roast regular ass animals, like pigs. Besides, I was looking forward to some tasty Waffle House.

“Get on I-270 West, and call me.”

Barns, empty fields, and roughly 3,700 state police pass.

“I’m on 270 West.”

“Go a couple of exits and take 315 North to the salmon festival and call me when you get there.”

I drive for a while, go under I-70, and conclude I missed the exit while on the phone. Driving back, there is no evidence of the mysterious 315 anywhere. I exit at SR 3 under the dubious theory that Ohio decided to drop the one and the five to cut costs. Also, SR 3 seems to be in the right place. There is no salmon roast anywhere. I begin to consider the possibility that 315 does not exist. I could check my atlas, but it is conveniently located in the trunk.

“I have issues, I can’t find 315, but I am one exit east of US 29.”

“You’re almost here, 315 is one exit west of US 29. Can I get you a beer?”

“Sure.”

“What do you like? How about something hoppy?”

“Hoppy sounds good, see you in five minutes.”

I get back on I-270 West, cross US 29 and the next exit is not 315. I decide the alleged 315 is nothing but lies and consider ditching.

A nightlight illuminates above Smoove D’s head and the following phone conversation takes place:

“Are you north or south of downtown?”

“North.”

“I’m South, that explains a lot.”

“My bad.”

I manage to arrive and meet up with The Geographer.

“I hope you’re not weirded out, but my parents are here.”

“No problem, this whole situation is weird.”

Weird like what the fuck am I doing in the middle of Ohio hanging out with someone I met on the internet. At a salmon roast, of all places.

We sat down, and The Geographer introduced me to her friend, a professional drummer, as well as her parents. Her parents turned out to be pretty cool (for parents).

As an apology for giving me bootleg directions, The Geographer bought me a beer, which was a tasty IPA produced by Buckeye Brewing. While sipping our brews, we chatted for a while. I enjoyed the conversation - the one thing I really miss about the north is vicious, yet funny, sarcasm.

Towards the end of the festivities, The Geographer and The Drummer donated to charity for the chance to send a female friend of Bill into the dunk tank. Unfortunately neither one had the aiming skills to get the woman wet.

I had a fun time, and a tasty beer, meeting The Geographer was absolutely worth getting lost. If you have the means, I highly recommend meeting The Geographer. Just bring a map.