Once upon a time (this past summer), we took a weekender to Asheville, North Carolina. We decided that the quickest route to get there was to go 150 miles out of our way to visit the Cabbage Patch Kid headquarters in Cleveland, GA.
We didn’t stop at the enormous Bass Pro Shops, the one with the lure testing tank, where die-hards like my dad enjoy casting different weapons from their arsenal and watching their ‘action’ underwater. We also drove right by the receding waters of Lake Lanier, where this summer, they were uncovering old guns, beer cans, stolen cars and sunken Christmas trees tied to cinder blocks.
Just before Cleveland, miles of dense forest thinned out to reveal one of those quaint little Bavarian holiday villages. Like every other jackass on the road, we pulled off to window shop for hand-whiddled Christmas ornaments in the dead of July.
We stumbled upon the Hansel & Gretel candy shop which boasted this 4-pound diabetes football. We gawked and shoved each other out of the way like obnoxious teenagers with our iphones, trying to be first to upload this monstrosity to Facebook. They also had chocolate covered Fritos and my personal favorite, the great wall of jellybeans.
AVA: ‘DADA. DADA. DADA.’
ME: ‘YES, Ava, what is it?’
AVA: ‘Charlie got sick in your hair.’
Really? Is that what I needed right now?
Run and get some paper towels for Daddy. And a t-shirt for chrissakes, I’m on the internet.
HOOTERS. GAZONGAS. MELONS.
JUGS. YABBOS. TATAS. SWEATER PUPPETS. TORPEDOS. DRUNKEN CYCLOPS.
What am I talking about?
Read More Post a comment (17)My wife says that everyone has stopped reading my blog because they’re sick of hearing about our road trip across the country where nothing happened.
FINE.
This will be the final chapter in the ‘reverse Griswold’ saga. Here are the Cliff’s Notes.
We left Texas and briefly drove through Oklahoma.
As road weariness, saggy eyebags and a dead-leg set in, I opened the moon-roof to put my hair in the wind, a little Hunter Thompson, Fear and Loathing style. Instead of acid and filter-tipped cigarettes, the hallucinogenic properties of the Diet Cokes and beef jerky had me listening to this cloud. It was luring me into the next state.
Welcome to New Mexico. I had only been through this state once on my way to Los Angeles via train, back in 1997. I don’t remember much, thanks to Bloody Mary and her dumb friend Heineken, the only two drinks Amtrak would serve.
Something told me that we were about to be enchanted. I wasn’t certain whether or not it was the landscape behind the welcome sign, or the Aquafina bottle half-filled with piss at it’s base, but we were in for a real treat.
The storm that came through the Grand Canyon was on our ass like Jerry Sandusky. Sorry, probably too soon on that one. I continued to dork out, using my doppler app, further diminishing my sex appeal, as my wife stared vacantly out the passenger window. Somewhere on the 89 South, we saw a gorge off the port side and some Navajo Indians (they were wearing Nike sneakers?) selling handmade jewelry. Considering that my wife was approaching Dolly Parton status of engorgement, and Charlie was screaming like his balls were on fire, we decided to pull over.
These weathered entrepreneurs were obviously tuned into the ferocity of the approaching storm and were in the process of packing up their turquoise to avoid getting knocked down by a lightning strike. Me? I used this opportunity to take a picture of the Audi and our Thule, where we keep Aunt Edna. I have no obligation to them, but maybe they’ll see this, start following me on twitter and pump some ad dollars into this bad boy.
After seeing a Flintstone-themed motel bar (Griswolds: Part 3) on the 64 North, I wasn’t sure how a giant hole in the earth was ever going to compare.
Since my wife and I are 62 years old, retired and live in an RV, we each have our own National Parks Passport books. For those who haven’t taken their nature appreciation to the next level, at every National Park you visit, you can stop by the visitor center and pick up a coordinating sticker with the park you’re visiting. This book is a great conversation starter and usually ends up being the big hit of the night.
On the approach to the center at the South Rim (gross) entrance, we were pelted with driving rain, lightning and gusty winds. Jen and I rode in silence, listening to my wipers go back and forth. We both knew what the next step was. The stickers. We stopped the car and had a Mexican stand-off from drivers seat to passengers seat.
If she ran in for the stickers, I would technically be in charge, if either one of the kids started to cry or needed emergency attention. If I went in, I would certainly get drenched, possibly hit by debris or smote with lightning, BUT, I wouldn’t be responsible for our kids. Simple.
I ran down the path from my car like a jerk, no umbrella or jacket, sideswiping tourists, trying to find cover.
Not only did I get our stickers, but I scored a limited edition anniversary stamp, the ultimate environmental panty-dropper.
As we moved into the park, we stopped off at the village, specifically the souvenir shop. With redneck blood running through our veins, we tried on Daniel Boone hats and bought a pocketknife with my name branded into it. We paid for our junk and ordered hoagies on the way out, thinking that we might be able to pull over and have a nice picnic lunch on the rim.
AVA: Well, hello handsome. How can I help you today?
CHARLIE: Well, uh, I’m a little tired of these tred socks. I saw some kids my age at the playground yesterday and they all had velcros (catches himself getting too excited and reels it in) and that’s all. No big deal. Anyway, I’m just here to look. I’m kind of, on a serious budget and probably won’t even buy anything.
AVA: Well. (goes from ecstatic to deflated but knows he’s playing hard ball) It doesn’t hurt to just try a few of these on, right? There’s no harm in that…
CHARLIE: Umm, yeah, (looking sheepishly at the ground), I guess not.
AVA: What are you looking for? What is your taste?
AVA: Oh wait! Let me guess. I’m super good at this! You’re the type of man that wants something sleek and sophisticated. Something serious. You’re a serious fellow. You are very driven and have your eye on the prize. You want something unique and distinguished.
AVA: Now (hunching down, looking around as if to tell him the largest secret, almost whispering), we just got these in this morning. You’re the first one to see them. They’re a resilient princess polymer with a clear wedge heel. The princess sticker on the bow is VERY in right now and for the money, you just can’t pass it up.
CHARLIE: Ehh, I don’t know. Oh boy. (Charlie is backpeddling and getting nervous) They look a little….dainty? Plus, I don’t see any velcro.
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I’m not a complicated man. I enjoy the simple things in life. Finding money I didn’t know I had, making the yellow light or even getting the pull-through parking spot. I love putting on clothes straight from the dryer and freshly cut grass. My all-time favorite is sleeping in on a rainy day.
Which is what I’m trying to do here.
As we approached Arizona, I had already exhausted every decent song on my iPod. My door was jammed up with an array of gas station jerky and Dr. Peppers. My wife didn’t think Metallica was helping Charlie fall asleep and I couldn’t deal with the ‘Wicked’ soundtrack one more time. We agreed on the Phil Collins Greatest Hits album, which was cool for a few minutes, then not. We reminisced with ‘Another Day in Paradise’ and may have even bounced in our seats a little during ‘Two Hearts’, but I would never openly admit that to anyone. ‘I Wish it Would Rain Down’ gave me some junior goosebumps and it wasn’t long before I got emotional, and there I was, headed out to sea in a Phil Collins flat spin. My excitement and fervor for Phil had turned into hatred, rage and depression.
“Sussudio’ came on and it was only a miracle that I didn’t gut myself with a buck knife before I saw the Arizona sign. Getting pictures of all these state signs is great if you want to nearly wreck your car every time, cutting over four lanes and stopping on a dime while going 85 mph.
Anyway, here’s the stupid sign.
