I-40 Part 3: DISASTER STRIKES (but, then so does luck)

FRIDAY, JULY 28
Flagstaff, AZ

Just as we entered into the most picturesque portion of our long drive (a side trip to Petrified Forest National Park), our digital camera dies. It's dead, and I have no idea why.

You can only imagine how overwhelming my sense of loss is.

The Petrified Forest was quite nice - there was so much more wood there than I would have hoped to imagine, especially since the NPS makes such a big deal about stealing some. (It's a $275 fine, and they include a helpful narc sheet in your park map to rat out people along the way.) Kevin and I joked that we should try to walk out with a gigantic log just to see if anyone would try to stop us.

We would have explored more of the park, but for a few problems: it was crazy hot, and in the middle of the day; I didn't have appropriate shoes; and - most troubling - those sign-of-the-Apacolypse thunderheads looming overhead just waiting to explode and smote.

SATURDAY, JULY 29
Santa Nella, CA

My heart is breaking in a million pieces with every mile I drive.

Kevin and I woke this morning with a similar realization: it's Saturday! This means hours of NPR entertainment! Wait, Wait and Car Talk and maybe - maybe!! - even This American Life. No longer will we need to ford our way through radio purgatory!

Alas, NPR stations break up and die as we cross into the Mojave Desert, leaving us with just the random smatterings of Spanish-language programming, "classic" rock stations, and vitriolic conservative talk radio.

Here are some final observations about contemporary radio:
(1) I tremble in fear at organizations like Focus on the Family and the radio shows they pump onto national airwaves, even if they are full of important "information" and "facts," like the "fact" that public schools turns children into homosexuals. R-i-i-i-ght.
(2) Why did Miami Vice dredge up Phil Collins? We've heard In the Air Tonight and Tonight, Tonight at least once per hour. Kevin rightly points out, "Well, I've heard that Gnarls Barkley song as much as Phil Collins."
(3) Beyonce and Jay-Z are poised for world domination, hindered only by the weakness of that Deja-Vu song.
(4) Radio stations in California play The Doors way more than most other radio stations. Kevin and I suspected this was true while driving around for two weeks a year or so ago, but it was confirmed during this long drive.
(5) Kevin adds, "I realized on this drive that Ozzy Osborne's Crazy Train is one of my favorite songs to listen to in the car."

SUNDAY, JULY 30
Palo Alto, CA

My eyes are infected. I think. They're really grossly red, which is a good look when interviewing and applying for apartment, as if I'd had to have one last hit in the car before coming inside. I'm pretty sure that the root of my problem came from that long, hot desert we crossed in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, with all of the dry air blowing on my face, but a cursory look at WebMD suggests that I might have caught untold numbers of foul infections from the random pillows, towels, and washcloths that we've been using at these dive motels across the country. If I have eye herpes from a skeevy Motel 6, I might cry, if I could produce tears.

I tried to cry earlier in the day, at the Palo Alto Main Library, when the frustration of finding an apartment and being perpetually lost and homeless in this foreign city that's supposed to be home came crashing down. Tears were not forthcoming, however.

I might just be dehydrated.

The worst part of my eye infection is that I have to wear my glasses, which are at least 3 years out-of-date and don't fit comfortably on my head after they were stepped on by someone.

Alas, it's difficult to be me.

MONDAY, JULY 31
Palo Alto, CA

WE HAVE AN APARTMENT!!

It might have been the easiest thing we've ever done.

We visited one (1) apartment.
We applied for one (1) apartment.

And, presto!

It has redwoods, and cypress trees, and eucalyptus trees. It's a decent size, and in walking distance to some cool shops and restaurants. It has a few pools, and a few tennis courts, but did I mention the trees? Really, it's like we've moved into an Ewok village.

This is good news as we've checked into perhaps the skeeviest motel in Palo Alto, and our truck is parked on the most central of central streets, just begging to be hotwired away.

I-40 Part 2

photos from the road

Gas is depressingly expensive.


Windmills in Oklahoma. Or Texas. Maybe Texas.

The largest cross in the Northern Hemisphere. Of course this is in Texas.

I'm not sure what the Homeland Security Threat level is, nor am I really sure what "details" the cashiers at this truck stop could possibly offer me (although the sign tells me to see cashier for details). Although, this is in Texas, so perhaps the Prez dishes out inside information for his peeps.


We ran into some severe weather in New Mexico. (Yes, that's a lightning bolt.)

I-40 Part 1

Well, we're nearly half way there. Currently we're bunked in rare style at the Biltmore Hotel in Oklahoma City. This fine establishment boasts a number of amenities, including:
- a country-western themed club
- an off-track betting station and sports bar
- half a dozen pools.

This is a massive step up from our previous accommodations, which were sketch at best. Now, I'm down with staying at the sketch to save a dollar or two, but the past few nights have tested my resolve if just for the fact that my "worldy belongings" were so conveniently contained in one little 14-foot truck in the parking lot, which, upon further inspection, looks so ripe for the boosting.

Some highlights: the Travelodge in Knoxville TN featured a blood-like stain on the carpet and proximity to an adult entertainment store.



Bad, you think? A new level of sketch goes out to North Little Rock's Americas Best Value Inn. No, I didn't forget the apostrophe: they did. Here are a few of the sights that greeted us as we checked in: a police cruiser making some kind of police report; several notices about being sure to lock up your car and checking for IDs before opening doors; possibly an hourly rate (we're not entirely sure); a can of Keystone Light just outside of our door; and - really, the toughest of the lot to swallow - a bed sheet so stained - ug, I can't continue. It was pretty wretched. And, if it had been just wretched, we might have stuck it out. However, we were concerned about the "worldy belongings" again, so we relocated to a Motel 6 in a different part of town, where at least we knew we wouldn't catch herpes from the bed.

The drive mostly has been uneventful, in both a positive and negative sense of the word. It's dreadfully boring, so I've started taking photographs. A lot of them. While driving. Mostly, of myself, but also of other stuff as we passed it: the Wigsphere in Knoxville, that pyramid thingy on the edge of Memphis, a nuclear reactor in southern Arkansas, and Kevin as he speeds past me in the UHaul.




Also, we've both been listening to a lot of radio. Some observations, in a semi-rant form:

(1) What's up with all of these Christian Rock stations? Seriously. They're clogging up all of that useful low-frequency band space that NPR calls home.

(2) How many modern country music stations can one possibly have? My estimate is two. Usually, there are five or six. There is no need for this, as modern country music may be the worst music ever.

(3) At what point did Poison become classic rock? Come on, people. This is decidedly unacceptable. You can't follow up the Everley Brother's "Dream" with "Unskinny Bop."

(4) Did anyone ever hear that All Things Considered piece about the classified ad show "Swap Shop?" WELL, I heard the show, in Tennessee. It was awesome. I'd rather listen to that than to modern country music, especially if Lambchop can score the background. (See this link to make sense of this comment.)

(5) There are a lot of conservative radio shows (unsurprisingly). They are (surprisingly) entertaining, mostly because they angry up my blood.

(6) Shakira's hips do not lie.

I have posted photos from the Clinton Library. You can access them by clicking on the photo below.

The Library was tremendous fun, especially since it showed on a semi-continuous loop that hilarious video Clinton did for his last White House reporters' dinner - you know, the one in which he has nothing left to do except for scam for free ice cream bars and buy honey ham on eBay?

Mostly, though, the Library serves as this weird reminder of how great the 1990s were, what with the stock market soaring and the peace making around the world (well, except for Rwanda and Bosnia and Chechnya and Haiti and Eritrea and, oh, a little place called the Republic of the Congo) and the President who didn't violate our civil liberties like it was a fraternity hazing prank. If Clinton wasn't a great President, he certainly was among the luckiest.

Finally, Kevin and I watched Monster House in 3-D while in Little Rock, and everyone MUST DO THIS. I cannot stress how important this is. For me, it's like:

(1) Vote

(2) Recycle
(3) See Monster House (in 3-D. Not regular. It's not worth it. But definitely 3-D).

It's crazy cool, and, according to previews, A Nightmare Before Christmas will be released in 3-D too.

Adventures in I-40 (preview edition)

We've arrived to the final stop on our itinerant summer: Chapel Hill. It's nice to be back to a place that feels so much like home - even more so after visiting places that nominally ought to be home, and it's nice to be able to visit with friends one last time.

We leave Monday morning for California. There exist a few uncertainties remaining about this drive, including, not least of which include whether we'll actually have a truck in which to load our stuff.

But, thanks to Eisenhower and his National Interstate System, we know exactly how we're getting there. The drive to California will be a blissfully easy (if mind-numbingly boring) straight shot across the country along I-40. At one point we'd toyed with the idea of actually starting the drive in Wilmington (the eastern terminus of the interstate) so that we could claim we'd driven the whole stretch in one straight shot. Then we realized that these were weak bragging rights, and, really, hadn't we driven that stretch of I-40 to the beach enough anyway? So, we'll start in Chapel Hill, and end in Bakersfield, and we'll have done (almost) all of I-40 in the process. That's more than enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

For the record, our expected travel will be:

Monday: Chapel Hill - Knoxville TN ** visit the Wigsphere
Tuesday: Knoxville TN to Little Rock AR ** visit Clinton Library
Wednesday: Little Rock AR to Oklahoma City OK ** visit OK City National Memorial
Thursday: Oklahoma City OK to Albuquerque NM ** watch pay-per-view
Friday: Albuquerque NM to Flagstaff AZ ** visit Petrified National Forest
Saturday: Flagstaff AZ to Bakersfield CA ** begin full-scale panic
Sunday: Bakersfield CA to Palo Alto CA

I realized this morning that we'd be taking a stopover in every state we'll drive through except Texas. Thank God for small mercies.

Mileage

I had this idea to estimate how many miles we've driven and would drive this summer. So:

Chapel Hill, NC to Marlton, NJ: 430
Around Utah and Arizona: approximately 2000
Marlton, NJ to Ocean City, NJ (RT): 110
Marlton, NJ to Washington, DC (RT): 300
Marlton, NJ to Carmel, IN: 715
Carmel, IN to Chicago (RT): 360
Carmel, IN to Chapel Hill NC: 665
Chapel Hill NC to Palo Alto, CA: 2810

Grand Total: 7390 miles driven.

Can you conceive of what 7390 miles is? Imagine this: get in your car in Philadelphia and start driving. If you head easterly, you can make it to cities like Algiers and Rome. Start off going south, and you could make it to Rio de Janeiro.

Of course, this is dependent on your go-go-gadget wheels, and driving on water, but still: I could be stuffing my face with gelato now for the distances I've been traveling.

Now, if you consider the fact that Kevin and I will be driving to California separately, and thus count the drive twice, you arrive at a new total of 10200 miles.

Is it a coincidence that this is almost exactly the same distance between Washington DC and Brazzaville, Republic of Congo?

I think not.

Amy's Prostitute Days (or, Blackmail)

So one of the first times I came home with Kevin, my mother trotted out this photo of me and my sister. It's from my grandmother's house, and I think I'm in first or second grade, which means that Kimberly's like in pre-K or kindergarten.

Anyway, what can I say about this picture? This is what I think is happening in this photo: I'm pretty sure my sister and I made these outfits. My grandmother went through a "making sweatshirts" phase around this time, and I think these were scrap castoffs. Which implies that if you put me, my sister, and a bunch of fabric in a room we'll walk out looking like this.

Every time I see this picture, I laugh. It's seriously one of the most hilarious things I've ever seen. There are so many nuances - look at the way I've got my hand on my hip. I don't think they teach that kind of street-savvy in elementary school. You've got to be born with that. Also, my face has this really hard look to it, like, at the tender age of 10 (or whatever I am), I've forgotten how to smile. The pocketbook is nice, too. I'm pretty sure I made that as well. And, taking a look at my sister, please notice these details: the pocket sewed onto her skirt. That's attention to detail, my friend, and shows one of us is a type-A personality in training. Also, my sister has this great anklette/shackle thing on; again, it's probably something we made. But I like how it implies that she's ready for some S&M action, for the right price. With my sister's hair, she might be rocking more of a jungle woman vibe than I am - I'm definitely all-out street walker. And my stockings!! I can't imagine where they came from, but they're a brilliant touch.

Also, I really should note here that my mother refers to this as her "blackmail" photo, and has implied several times that she'll use it one day. Perhaps nothing more accurately describes the (dys)function of our mother-daughter relationship than the fact that my mother would ever conceive of a time in which she would blackmail her daughter with a tramp trump card. So, to steal her thunder, I'll post it here.

Summer Trip Photos

Yay! They're posted. Come take a look:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/amydavis/sets/72157594202584391/

Chicago

** addendum, 7/19**
KJ was disappointed that I didn't mention this:

While driving to Chicago, we listened to Sufjan Steven's The Avalanche: Outtakes and Extras from the Illinoise Album; this album features three versions of the otherwise cute song "Chicago." It was an apt listening choice, although KJ found the album otherwise lacking. Specifically, he snarled that it was "just a way to make more money."

Now, back to the rest of the post:

We spent the weekend in Chicago, visiting Jared and Cathy Silver, friends of mine from those heady undergraduate years.

But first, I made Kevin look at some modern and contemporary art with me at the Art Institute.

Self Portrait; Amy and Kevin in the reflective kidney bean.

Kevin, eyeing a Miro.

Our weekend was fun, and relaxing, and all kinds of crazy hot. (As we pulled up to Jared's house, we heard this weather report on NPR: "Today, it will be hot; tomorrow, it will be hot.")

As far as activities and events, we mostly just hung out in a low-key, heat-avoidance weekend. We did brave the heat an 80's hair metal cover band (aptly named "HairBangers Ball") perform at a street festival. Because, really, isn't 80's hair metal the greatest era in music, ever? Like, certainly more impressive than the British invasion. I'd like to say that we just stumbled into this, but there was a certain amount of planning and intention.

Don't let their calm demeanor fool you: Cathy, Jared and Kevin are rocking so hard.

Many wigs were worn. Also, the lead singer had about fifteen stomach rolls. Super hot.

I've been honing my Boggle skills over the past few months, and thought that I could take down not only Kevin (a formidable opponent) but also Jared and Cathy on their home turf. So, I pushed hard for a Boggle game. Alas, I was thoroughly routed by all three. Perhaps words like "throater" did me in. Also, Jared and Cathy have one of those 5x5 Boggle boards, which are just way too intense. But, as Cathy said, "you didn't go on vacation to take a test."

Three satisfied winners.

There's a blue-collar movement afoot in my generation, I think, driven primarily by men emasculated by their stuffy office jobs and a sneaking suspicion that their skill with a garlic press will leave them vulnerable when the coming environmental apocalypse is upon us. Here's evidence of such a movement: Jared Silver, accountant at large, painting his parking lines in the 100+ degree Sunday morning heat. The color? Safety Yellow, of course. And man, these lines are safe.

We'd originally planned to go from Chicago to Lake Michigan/Indiana Dunes, but I realized that I'd already tempted the Heat Stroke Gods once this summer and made it out unscathed, and that my luck was bound to run out sooner rather than later. So, we opted to remain in climate control, and instead caught a lunch and movie, went to a katrillion degree mass, and then drove back to Indiana. It's a wonderfully scenic drive through Northern Indiana - some sample commentary includes, "cornfield, cornfield, soybeans, soybeans," (pause, sniff, plugged nose) "dat's a hog farm."

I'd also like to mention that Cathy Silver runs a spectacular bed-and-breakfast from their urban home. This is not true. However, she should, since the level of hospitality she offers is charge-worthy. The comment cards left on our pillows were a particularly nice touch...

Adventures in Daylight Savings Time

In keeping with it's unofficial motto of being the most ornery of Great Lakes States (sorry, Wisconsin, but it's true!), Indiana had for decades rejected the notion of daylight savings time. Really, it might have been one of the few things that unified the state, since everyone seemed to oppose it. In our current age of partisan politics, this kind of unity is rare.

As a result of Indiana observing "Indiana Time" all year long, or perhaps in spite of it, people from Indiana are inordinately obsessive about time. My parents, when traveling, will always refer to "Indiana Time" as some kind of benchmark against which they measure current time. For example, when they took two weeks to drive out West this summer, they refused to change either their car clock or their wristwatches. I suspect if my parents ever were to visit more far-flung places - London? Mumbai? Tokyo? - they'd still keep "Indiana Time."

I guess it's easy to understand why the issue of selecting the "right" time could be tough in a state like Indiana. It's a Northish Northern state, which impacts the amount of winter daylight available. It's either at the Western border of the Eastern Time Zone, or at the Eastern border of the Central Time Zone, which means that sunrises and sunsets fall at less-than-optimal times for that time zone.

For a while it was on Central Time, but that was changed many years ago to Eastern Standard Time. My grandmother insists that ever since the transition to Eastern Standard Time (all year, all the time) Indiana has been on "Daylight Time." And, perhaps this is true.

Then, "My Man Mitch" was elected governator of this fair state. My understanding of the following political debates are filtered through my parents and through a few mean-spirited Newsweek articles, but as far as I can gather, it goes something like this:
- Mitch was a Republican.**
**I'm not sure exactly why this matters, except for the fact that Indiana has had one much-loved Democratic governator in Evan Bayh and two tolerated Democratic governators over the past 15 years, so perhaps all of this going-around-and-messing-up-stuff can be blamed on the Republicans. I should also note that Indiana is a terribly Republican state in general.
- Mitch, a Republican, wanted Daylight Savings Time so very, very badly, that he brought the bill up in every General Assembly session.
- After being bludgeoned by Mitch's demands for Daylight Savings Time, the General Assembly acquiesced.
- The General Assembly passed a measure for Daylight Savings Time, but did not specify which time Indiana would observe, as the political debate surrounding this question prohibited the passage of the bill.
- The State of Indiana may or may not have asked Congress to decide.
- It was decided that Indiana would observe Eastern Standard Time and Eastern Daylight Time.

What's the result? As far as I can tell, it's twofold:

First, the sun sets at like 10:30 p.m. Seriously.** It's insane, and crazy, and if I were a kid trying to catch fireflies, I'd be heartbroken.
** Actually, today it will set at 9:13 p.m.

This is Kevin, outside my house yesterday, at 9 p.m.

Second, the people of Indiana are in a passive-aggressive outrage. At least my family is. My mother blames Daylight Savings time for everything. My sister has proclaimed is obsolescence, and said that it vanish from every state in the next decade. My grandmother insists that we're on "Daylight Daylight Time," as if we're in some proto-Seussian society.

I suspect some of this outrage will be tempered by the sweet, sweet falling back that will occur in October. Until then...I just don't know. I hope they make it. I doubt they will.

Summoning my inner librarian

I'm thinking about getting an MA in library science. Or an MS. I'm not sure, really, and I've done absolutely no research into the matter, except for the following:

- Everyone I know who is in library science is painfully awesome, and, perhaps I could become painfully awesome by association. At least I could meet some painfully awesome people who would befriend me and show me how to find the hippest eye glasses;
- I don't really want to have a job, and being in school seems like a respectable way to get out of it;
- And, I'll get tuition discounts at Stanford and will have in-state residency for Berkeley, so I feel like I should take advantage of the sale on prestigious education.

Plus it could be fun to be a librarian. God knows I like to read. And I like to put things in order.

Kevin highlighted the important drawback: spending time with the kitten-sweatshirt-wearing librarians. This could be a problem. My proclivity for knitting and other handicrafts might win me an otherwise unwarranted spot in their ranks.

It's a risk I might be willing to take.

Ciao, South Jersey

We spent our last few days in South Jersey fitting in last-minute visits to friends and trying to find an apartment. One activity was far more successful than the other.

First, we visited our friend Danna, now living in the netherworld of Central Jersey, as she's started her postdoc at Princeton. Only weeks before Danna had - contracted? Acquired? Developed? - appendicitis, and I spent a goodly portion of our dinner pumping her for details about her illness and surgery.

I've had a well-developed fear that I'll get appendicitis and die for over a decade now. Indeed, I've often been known to say "I think I have appendicitis" at the first sign of gastro-intestinal discomfort. It's always been gas.

Anyway, Danna's medical science training and pragmatic attitude on life helped her to separate fact from fiction in the appendicitis debate. Here are her helpful clue for fellow hypocondriacs: Pain on one side of your body is a bad sign.

I think she means here in your midsection area, and obviously not if you've been like stabbed or something.

She was also full of great surgery details, including the fact that the pumped her midsection FULL OF AIR, and she looked like she was NINE MONTHS PREGNANT, and the air settles in all kinds of crazy places LIKE YOUR SHOULDER, and you expel this air in exactly the way you think you would.

Aside from the rogue pockets of air traveling my body willy-nilly, I'm totally ready to have my appendix out.

Then we stopped by to visit the Heines, a family of three rough-and-tumble boys and a younger sister. If I ever have boys, I'd love them to be like this: boy's boys. They like sports, and wrestling, and animals, and they seem to hate most girls. We had gigantic pillow fights and sumo-wrestler fights, and we spent what seemed like hours looking at books on snakes and lizards and other creepy-crawlies.

Ryan, tapped out as a Sumo


Sean and Brendan, getting some Sumo action.

The Case for Congo

Please, don't get me wrong: I don't really have any business going to the Congo. I'm accident prone, I'm disease prone, and I've got an issue with insects. But there's this weird, teeny-tiny itsy-bitsy smidgen of a chance that I may be in a position to go.

And really, why shouldn't I? I've been involved in all kinds of hairbrained schemes and adventures that provide me with a firm foundation for navigating whatever the Congo may throw my way. For example:

Remember that time I like practically made out with a python? Dude, that was so cool. Um, I think it was a boa or something. Anyway, as you can tell I handled myself pretty well - and, let me tell you, these bad boys are just as heavy as they look.

Oh, yeah, I remember this: riding the back of the wild giraffes of Northern India(na). I got some bad advice on this one - next time, I won't ride bareback. Or backward. And I'll remember to bring my legs.

And probably most helpful will be that stint I did with United Nations Peacekeeping forces. Nothing says "power" like powder blue - just ask anyone from Carolina

Stories from Our Nation's Capital

This weekend we visited our friend Kari in DC. It was a weekend full of non-stop frenetic activity:

Jazz at the Sculpture Garden

(Kari, channeling his inner hillbilly)

Basketball

(See? White Men Can't Jump)

Blueberry Picking

(We picked like 12 pounds of blueberries. And I'm not kidding.)

And The Panda's Birthday Party

(Kari was the only one without a panda sweatshirt on.)

Actually, this activity listing is a bit disingenuous. There certainly were several activities we didn't do. For example, we didn't exactly celebrate The Panda's birthday - we waited around for a while with some scarily fanatical Pandamaniacs before we decided to bail. And, despite repeated references to the newly opened "Portrait Gallery" and the "Building Museum," neither appeared on our itinerary.

And, for once, I wasn't the one to punk out on going to a show.

But on Sunday morning, when Kari stated that he was feeling "pretty mediocre," we knew that our efforts at cheer, though sincere, were falling short. Indeed, there was only one cure: Eastern NC-style barbecue. This remedy lead us to the only such establishment in the DC area, and to perhaps one of the most bizarre dining experiences I've encountered. A few of the quirks:

- there was a Sunday Brunch buffet; unfortunately, portions were doled out by the inept, if cheerful, Eastern European server who handled the entire dining floor;
- after Kevin requested more water (perhaps to fill the empty pitcher on our table?), our server brought him an unopened half-liter of bottled water;
- although we were the only customers, our food took a solid 20 minutes to reach us;
- our server insisted that Kari hadn't ordered Cole slaw (when he so obviously had).

But perhaps the most entertaining portion of the meal was when our server returned to the table with our check. She handed us an indecipherable piece of paper and said, "it's thirty dollars." I have to assume there was some rounding up involved. And, the coup de grace, our server kindly requested a cash-money tip.

It was at this point I wondered if perhaps we'd traveled through some wormhole and actually ended up in Eastern Europe. It would certainly explain the sensation that everything we said was lost in translation. Really, the entire dining experience reminded me of being in a foreign country, in which you really just roll with situations without pause for reflection. You know: "oh, perhaps the culture here is for one free glass of tap water, and then you have to pay for it," or, "oh, perhaps it's typical to just make up prices to charge customers."

So why didn't we complain? Ask question? Raise our fists in opposition? Because the barbecue was good, and it's hard to get that shit outside of NC.

There is one additional sad series of events to report from this weekend. It involves Trivial Pursuit, and lost games, and the fact that Kevin Ross, of all people, smoked Kari and me TWICE. The second win was particularly painful, as Kevin racked up nearly all of his pie pieces within three turns and then struggled to finish it off for two hours. But, he won, and Kari won, and I lost, lost, lost. Sigh.

Everything I say comes from The Simpsons

Recently, I realized that without The Simpsons, I might be nonverbal. (Ha!)

Here are a few of the many Simpsonsisms that have become vernacular in the Davis-Ross household.

- Baby Stink Breath.
usage: "Sorry, we can't make out, I have baby stink breath."

- Chintzy Pop.
usage: "Can you make us some Chintzy Pop?"
ed. note: usually refers to Jiffy Pop.

- "Come here a minute." "Oh, yeah?"
usage: Amy says, "Hey, Kev, come here a minute." Kevin replies, warily, "oh, yeah?"
ed. note: Sometimes used ironically; mostly used barkingly.

- "Take a sweater."
usage: Kevin, to Amy, "make sure you 'take a sweater' to the beach. It's only 95 degrees out today."
ed. note: Must be used with mocking Marge Simpson tone.

- "Nope!"
usage: Amy, to Kevin: "Are you mad at me for buying $200 in hardcover books?" Kevin, "nope!"
ed. note: Must be used in Ralph Wiggins-resurrected-from-the-dead voice.

- "Tastes like burning."
usage: whenever anything tastes nasty. Or really good.
ed. note: Again, must have Ralph Wiggins voice.

- "At this time of day? In this part of the hemisphere? At this time of year? Localized entirely within your kitchen?"
usage: Whenever anything is particularly shocking. For example, "You made dinner? At this time of day? Etc..."
ed. note: Critical to this usage is that it's not 100 percent verbatim

- "I - uh - didn't do it."
usage: Amy, to Kevin: "Who made this mess?" Kevin: "I - uh - didn't do it."
ed. note: Clearly, Mayor Quimby doing his best Kennedy impersonation.

- Powersauce Bars
usage: "Can you pick up some Powersauce Bars before we climb Mt. Rainier?"

And, the C. Montgomery Burns duo:
for Amy, the Machiavellian "excellent"
for Kevin, the retro "ahoy-hoy"

Jersey Shore, Bush's Birthday, and Racist Dolls

Jersey Shore
Well, I finally made it to the Jersey Shore.

This is kind of a running joke between Kevin and me that I'm sad to see die, although I suppose it was its time. For nearly five years Kevin wowed me with the bounties of Ocean City, NJ. And for nearly five years, the Jersey Shore remained as mysterious to me as El Dorado must have been to Pizarro or Cortez. After years of being told of its existence, I finally saw it with my own two eyes. Nay, I even touched it with my own two feet.

Unfortunately, it rained most of the time we were there.

But, I have proof that it exists, and that my life hasn't been orchestrated from behind the scenes, a la The Truman Show. My boat didn't crash into the edge of the set. We stayed the night in Kevin's generous aunt's house, which was very nice and looked out across the bay. It was idyllic, if drizzly.

I could see how Ocean City would be paradise for a child - the games, the rides, the food! And while I could see it's thrill, I was mostly just exhausted.

Which leads me to the top-5 things that I hate about getting older:
(1) I can't ride spinning rides, since even swingsets give me vertigo;
(2) I can't eat nearly as much sugar (in one sitting) as I used to be able to;
(3) I am acutely aware of my own mortality in an unfun way;
(4) I am made very, very nervous by crowds of people;
(5) Spending money on many types of things makes me very, very sad.

As you can imagine, each of these conflicts with the true Ocean City experience in profound ways. Let's take #2, for example: the sugar issue. I'd anticipated sampling all of the tasty treats of the boardwalk - and by all, I mean all. Unfortunately, after some "light" custard, some pizza, and some fudge, I was tapped out. Talk about depressing - I didn't even get to hint at caramel corn, funnel cakes, or Italian ice. Or Polish ice. Or water ice.

I guess there's always next year.

Bush's Birthday
Actually, what I want to say here isn't really about Bush, per se, but about the photos that come out of the White House Press Agency. A photo released today (showing a tanned and smiling Bush, in some kind of hideous Hawaiian shirt, for his birthday) reminded me of their nefarious ways.

These photos are possibly the closest thing we have to Norman Rockwell today. Really. They're just too cute. Too perfect. Too nice. And too creepy.

I was first alerted to these photos by my friend Peter, who showed me a picture of a VERY CLEARLY doctored up photo, in which a telephone had been inserted into Bush's hand, nestled against his ear and his chin. It was just Bush's head, and his hand, and that silly Photoshopped phone.

This photo, I should add, was in full color and on the front page of the NYT.

Why a phone? Do I need to see that my President is hard at work? Because, really, a telephone won't do it. A telephone makes me think that he's just trying to make sense of Pizza Hut's 5-5-5 deal. "Wait: what if I get a Meat Lovers, and Rove orders a Supreme, can Cheney get a Meat Lovers too?"

This is a slippery slope, though. What would make me believe my President is hard at work defending me from evil-doers? Perhaps a computer; maybe he should be looking at a computer screen, his hand poised over the keyboard? No, this wouldn't do, because I suspect it would be difficult to Photoshop out the reflection of the ill-strategized game of Mindsweeper in the President's reading glasses.

Maybe: the President, pencil at hand, gazing pensively up at the ceiling, piles of reports and yellow legal pads surrounding him? Nope: here, in my mind's eye, he's just aiming the pencil toward the ceiling, hoping to get it stick in, just like in his halcyon days at Andover.

I honestly believe this is the photo that would work: Bush, in a magician's cape. Perhaps with a magic wand, perhaps without. Seriously - think about it. What else COULD he be doing in this scenario?

Presto! World peace.
Presto! Health care for the poor.
Presto! A sustainable environmental policy.

Racist Dolls
While at the Jersey Shore, Kevin, his mother and I visited this cute doll store at Cape May. Apparently, you can "adopt" a doll in a bureaucratic process that puts Xavier Roberts to shame.

While at this store, Kevin and I spotted these two dolls. I should note a few things about them:

(1) They were the only dolls of color in the entire place. Well, perhaps there were a few Asian dolls. But these were certainly the only black dolls in the entire store.
(2) The photos doesn't really show this, but these dolls were a good 30-36 inches tall. They were HUGE, really.
(3) They really strike me as being in poor taste. The hair, for one. And the ill-fitting suit on the boy.

These actually remind me of these terrible statues that my mother handpainted for a distant relative's curio store. The statues played to every racial stereotype imaginable, but my mother, lost in her Type-A perfection painting, couldn't see how offensive they were. How could she, when she was just painting the wheel of a roller skate, or some adorable buck teeth?

Please let me know if my bleeding liberal heart is just too precious, or if these dolls really are offensive.

The Greatest Word Ever Spoken

Please click on photos to view a larger image!
Kevin and I have returned safely to New Jersey. Unfortunately, we just narrowly missed a front row seat at Lil' Kim's release from a Philadelphia prison - perhaps our greatest disappointment of the trip. (Pause to wipe tear from eye. Gather strength to continue.)

Now it's time to reveal the real reasons why Kevin and I visited St. George, Utah. I'd mentioned that our lives were in danger. Tumors, you think? Asthma attacks? Ingrown toenails? Oh, no. St. George was the closest locale with a Chevrolet dealership. And why would we need one of these? Car problems, my friends. Car problems.

Faithful readers of this testimony will recall that we awoke on our first day of vacation to a flat tire. At the time I thought it was a shame that we'd have to pay $13 to fix something that didn't even belong to us. Oh, how naive I was.

To properly tell this tale, we must go back a few days - to June 19. Kevin and I were visiting the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, which is a region among the most remote in the U.S. Certainly, it was the most remote place I'd ever visited, and I'm from Indiana.

We visited the Bureau of Land management information center, where the watchful gaze of Bush and Cheney's official portraits smiled serenely down upon us. We asked the BLM pseudo-ranger for hike recommendations.

Pseudo-ranger: what kind of car do you drive?
Us: Um. A regular car?
Pseudo-ranger: Do you mind driving it 24 miles down a rough dirt road?
Us: Um. No?
Pseudo-ranger: Is it a rental?
Us: Yes.
Pseudo-ranger: No problem.

For the record, this is what we were driving: A 2006 Chevrolet HHR.


So, armed with a map and some trail descriptions, Kevin and I head off down the Hole-in-the-Rock Road. The first 17 miles or so of the road was fine: it was rough, certainly, but we were able to speed down at 20 MPH or so.

Then, it got a little rougher.

Then, we turned off on the short side road that would take us to our trail head, and it got rougher still.

But, we made it to the trailhead with seeming little problem. We were the only non-4WD car there, but we made it. Dusty, but intact.

The sign for our trailhead; two other cars at the trailhead; my message to the world.


The hikes themselves were amazing - we explored two slot canyons and the wider Dry Coyote Gulch canyon. The canyons were quite narrow. At times, we could barely squeeze through when on our sides. At other times, we needed to scramble on the sandstone. It was 106 degrees outside, but inside the slot canyons, with little sunlight peeking in, it was much cooler.

But, it was terribly remote. We remarked a few times that this was not the place to get injured, since we most certainly would die. The heat would cause problems, the lack of water would cause problems, and that slow, slow drive down the dirt road would certainly cause problems.

This was, of course, the place where Kevin saw and taunted the rattlesnake.

Finished with our hikes, we climbed back into the car and proceeded to drive back down the dirt road, back to the main highway. At one point, we had to pull over so a few 4WD vehicles could pass by, and I noted a strange smell in the air. But, since I'm always uncertain whether or not the smells exist, I had to question.

Amy: Do you smell that?
Kevin: Yeah.
Amy: Um, what do you think it is?
Kevin: I think it's just the tires - I came to a quick stop.
Amy: It smells like motor oil.

At the time, I was afraid that we'd lost the oil pan on the car. This was what our friend Kirk had mentioned as a hazard of rough roads, and, really, what else could it be?

We finished the drive, and pulled off the dirt road onto the highway. That sickening smell of burning motor oil greeted us again. There are few smells as wrong as that of burning oil. Nothing indicates problems the way the smell of burning motor oil does.

A few miles down the road we stopped to get gas. The stench of burning oil was undeniable, and, as the tank fueled up, I saw a suspicious liquid drip-drip-dripping just behind the rear right tire.

Amy: Um, Kevin, what's that?
Kevin: Probably just condensation from the air conditioner.
Amy: Yeah. Could you look at it?

A moment later, Kevin's brownish, oily finger was the only proof we needed that something was seriously wrong. And, a moment after that, a helpful car repairman confirmed our fears.

"You've blown out your shocks."

And, can it be repaired?

"It will take three days to get the parts."

And, is it expensive?

"Well, for a pick-up it'd be about $30 each, but for this car, I don't know."

Since we were set to rendezvous with my parents at Bryce the next day, we asked if we could drive out to Bryce the way the car was.

"Oh, sure. It might just handle a little weird."

That night was filled with trying to call the car repair center outside of Bryce Canyon, wondering if we'd be able to get our car fixed, or if it would be replaced (as the repairman had suggested it would be). We also spent some time ex-post-facto reading our rental agreement, which very clearly prohibits the off-road use of the vehicle.

At that point, I want to make it very clear that the best case scenario (in my mind) was that we would not have to purchase the 2006 HHR that we'd been driving. Sure, we'd been in the market for a new car, but more of the Prius variety.

The next morning, we drove very carefully to the car repair center near Bryce Canyon. We noticed that the car didn't exactly handle well - especially whenever Kevin would swerve/break to avoid hitting these monstrous jackrabbits that darted across the road.

The very, very helpful man at the car repair center gave us some great advice. First, he informed us that not just one, but both shocks were blown out. Next, he told us that it would just be crazy expensive if he were to collect the car and give us a replacement rental. Finally, he told us to just go to a Chevrolet dealership and have the parts replaced. "It could be $150 each," he said. "But it's cheaper than me taking the car back to Salt Lake City."

"But we're going to the Grand Canyon - can we still drive it?"

"Oh, sure, It might handle a little rough, but you won't hurt the car none."

So, with the ever-present aroma of burning oil to scent our memories, we intrepidly continued our trip. And, sure, the car didn't handle so great: sharp turns were pretty scary, as were bridges, uneven pavement, large semis passing in the opposite direction, road construction, and the threat of crossing deer and cattle. Mostly, though, the road was just always rough, as if the car were one of those popcorn-popper lawn mowers and Kevin and I were just the plastic balls inside.

And, so, perhaps we were a little relieved when we learned that the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was on fire, since it gave us an excuse to take the car to St. George, to the Steven Wade dealership, to have it fixed.

Early Tuesday morning we dropped off the car. Kevin was in charge of this (naturally! I said it was early in the morning), and the conversation apparently went something like this:

Kevin: I think we blew out the shocks.
Les Rosenvall, Steven Wade Service Manager: (Sticking his head inside the dash) Low mileage for that to happen.
**The car had approximately 5000 miles**
Kevin: Yeah. We hit some rough road.

Around 10 a.m., I received a call from Mr. Rosenvall, who asked how long we'd stay in St. George. A few days, I told him. "Good. We'll overnight some parts and fix this up tomorrow. It's not safe to drive."

Not safe to drive?!? Oh. That would explain a lot.

But, being the ostrich I am, I failed to ask how much the repairs would be. Kevin called back a moment later to get the damage.

He relayed the news to me with a smile.

"It's under warranty."

It was repaired without incident, and we were well on our way to finish our vacation. Our adventure into St. George rewarded us with plenty of hot showers, some much-needed climate control, and our introduction to the Blue Bunny Ice Cream Parlor.

Au Revoir, Utah

We've made it to the penultimate day of our vacation - tomorrow finds us packing and driving to Salt Lake City, so now's as good a time as any to finish up the travel updates.

You may recall that the North Rim of the Grand Canyon had become a flaming inferno at the time of our last installment. Thus, we made our escape from Arizona to start the Zion portion of our trip a few days early.

But, we spent some time in St. George, Utah. Why? For legal and ethical reasons, we'll have to post our reasons when we leave the state. Suffice it to say it was a required stop and that we were endangering our lives up until that point. How's that for a cliffhanger?

In St. George, we discovered the most amazing ice cream parlor. Anyone familiar with Blue Bunny ice cream? Do yourself a favor and buy a half gallon tonight. A future blog will detail how fabulous and amazing this place is - photos are required, and we can't upload them yet.

Alas, we learned that all of the great trails that bald Ranger Pat recommended to us were CLOSED at Zion, due to another wildfire. So, our time at Zion has been spent doing some hiking, avoiding the crazy hot weather, fending off asthma attacks (Amy only), and watching a lone mouse try to swim upstream. Also, we saw some turkeys roosting in trees, which were pretty cool.

Please be on the lookout for photos, a more detailed travelogue, and the real reasons for our visit to St. George in just a few short days. Until then...