BunnyBlinks

Jokes about New Jersey (“What Exit?”), like jokes about Wisconsin (“Cheese & Beer & Snow“), are easy to come by.

I’ve spent my first two and past 12 years in Wisconsin, but my mother was raised in New Jersey, and I still return (not as often as I’d like) to visit my cousins and friends who live there. I’ve enjoyed a few summer weeks on the Jersey Shore, as well as on Wisconsin’s middle-coast cheddarized version thereof. Perhaps that’s why I want to point out one or two more deep connections between what appear on the surface to be culturally distant states. Or a third:

This week, the entire country had a chance to learn “The lessons of Jersey Shore“ (courtesy of Fourfour‘s precision brand of hilaro-snark).

Next week, I hope New Jersey will teach us in Wisconsin one more lesson. New Jersey Peeps: Contact your legislators today!

There’s no harm in making fun of either state. But this time I hope New Jersey gets the last laugh.

Update (12/7/8) : via Joe. My. God. “Victory In New Jersey! Marriage Vote In Full Senate Slated For Thursday”

I’ve never been to Iowa. A couple of Bunnyblinks readers live there, and a few of my Madison friends are Hawkeyes (although they’re the sort of Hawkeyes who don’t generally identify with team mascots).  That said, I realize that my never having been to Iowa might not be a big deal to many of you. It is.

I’ll admit I’ve always been attracted to the state. Maybe it’s Harkin. Maybe it’s that I’m a political junkie. As a kid, I remember admiring its eastern bump — the one Dubuque sits atop, shaped by the Mississippi River on Iowa’s border. But to this day, I’ve never set foot there. Why?

It was a matter of pride. The fact that one of the five United States I haven’t been to borders Wisconsin should tell you something about the extent of my grudge, which began when I was a kid. (I think I’d only been to, say, 27 states at the time the seeds of this grudge were planted). My parents loved subjecting us to road trips, which I’m sure I’ll finally be grateful for in three more years or so. On one trip (not, obviously, to Iowa), Mom was passing the time with one of her well-worn routines, slowly naming and counting each of the states she, Dad, my sister, and I had been to.  She never lost count, nor did she ever seem to mind that we weren’t paying attention until, toward list’s end, she would invariably point out that my sister and I would’ve been tied at 27, but — gasp! — she’d been to Iowa and I hadn’t. Sure, she was only a baby at the time, riding behind Mom and Dad on the green Plymouth back-seat floor in those old-timey pre-car-seat days. I didn’t care.

At least that’s what I convinced myself. Today, I live some 80 miles from Iowa, as I have for over a decade, but that hasn’t broken my decades-long streak of expending lots of energy not caring that I haven’t been there (although most of this energy, I’ll admit, has been channeled into no more than a few dramatic moments).  Once I even drove to the river, waved across in the general direction of Iowa’s bump at any Iowan who might see me,  only to turn the car around and head home. True story.

When I read yesterday’s news, I knew it was time to call off the boycott. I’ll admit, Iowa was never all that bad. Still, it’s high time for a road trip. It’s the least I can do. No hard feelings?