Road Trip Memories - My Four Trips to New York City

I have been to New York City four times in my life. The most recent will be this weekend to attend the wedding of my friend Joel and his wonderful fiance Aubrae, who I have mentioned on this blog before. In the course of planning this trip, I was eager to use some free time to visit some new places and re-visit some places I have been before, like Central Park. But I also want to share with you a little bit about who I was when I took those trips. It is a necessary context because who I was then and who I am now will affect how I view the City that Never Sleeps.

First Trip to New York City:

My first trip was in the 7th Grade on a school trip. I was incredibly eager because I believed it would offer me a glimpse into the future life I was destined to lead. My family had always known I would leave Tulsa. They said it was in my blood. When my grandmother (my father's mother) had turned 18 she left Yates Center, Kansas and moved to Omaha, Nebraska. Why Omaha? Because she didn't know anyone there. When my father turned 18, he left Nebraska and moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma. When I turned 18, everyone assumed I would leave and go to some place where I didn't know anyone. And they were right. I moved to Chicago because it was a big city and I didn't know anyone there.

My visit to the city was organized as any school children's trip would be organized: visits to all the major landmarks and museums, little time for us to get ourselves into trouble (although we managed to do so anyway), and a few brilliant surprises such as chance encounters with movie stars. I'll share with a few of those stories in the coming weeks.

Second Trip to New York City:

My second visit was in high school. My friend Katy had moved to New York City to attend Columbia University. She was living the dream in my mind. With several high school friends, I flew to New York City to party like I believed people partied in the city. We slept on her dorm floor, literally taking up every little bit of floor space that was available. It's funny, but this is the trip I remember the least. There are only three events I remember clearly from this trip: (1) Cutting my finger with a spoon (yes, I really did that), (2) Going to see one of the early off-Broadway performances of "I Am My Own Wife" before it won the Pulitzer Prize, and (3) A friend who was with us getting drunk and speaking only in Spanish for the remainder of the night. Why is this trip the most unclear in my mind? I don't know. Maybe it was because I was being guided by a friend who lived in New York. I was seeing New York as she saw it, not entirely through my own eyes.

Third Trip to New York City:

My second trip was as a sophomore in college. With my friends MirMir and Bess, I went to New York City as cheaply as possible. We flew to Philadelphia and got a ride to Newark, Delaware where we spent a few days with MirMir's family. Then we took a bus to New York City and took a room in a dilapidated YMCA by Central Park. We weren't really interested in seeing the Statute of Liberty, our sightseeing adventures were a little different. We had an Italian dinner in Little Italy and a drink at the White Horse Tavern where Dylan Thomas went gentle into that good night. We spent most of the trip pretending we were in a fake goth rock band called "Meanwhile Back in Communist Russia..." and had very loud conversations about our non-existent drummer we were kicking out of the band and our debut album "The Mexican Icepick" on the subway. (Get it? The Mexican Icepick?)

It was an amazing trip of three girls play-acting at being interesting. I wasn't sure who I really was then, but loved being in a big city where I could try on different identities. A melancholy bassist in a goth rock band, an aspiring writer lingering in the bookstore where Jhumpa Lahiri shops, or a heavy drinker who could keep up with Dylan Thomas if he hadn't already succumb to his eighteenth whiskey. I was all of them and I was none of them. I was everyone I imagined I could be because I had no idea who I really was.

Fourth Trip to New York City:

My fourth trip to New York City is as an adult. This is also my first time traveling to New York City alone, probably because it is the first time I am mature enough to contemplate the difficulties of traveling alone in a big city. I found a nice little hotel on the Upper West Side, near where the ceremony would be. I planned some activities for my free time, mapped out subway routes, and calculated taxi fares. It is a trip I have planned and prepared for, something I haven't done on my previous trips. Most likely because I didn't know how and didn't know what I wanted. But this time, I do. On this time to New York, I am going as a whole person. I am not anticipating a future I still can't see clearly or experimenting with identities. I know who I am this time around. So does that make New York City a different place now? I don't know yet. I'll have to wait and see.

Road Trip Memories - Meeting a President at Carmen's Pizza in Evanston, IL

Tuesday, I mentioned that I have been lucky enough to shake the hands of a former President and two Supreme Court Justices. Because I think it is rather interesting, I thought I should share the story of how I shook the hand of former President Jimmy Carter.

I had just left Oklahoma and moved to Evanston, Illinois. My mother came to town to visit me and offered to take me and my roommate, who was Bess of The Unplanned Misadventures of MirMir and Bess, out to dinner. Choosing where to eat was easy - we were college students and our diet consisted almost entirely of pizza and PopTarts (literally, that is not an exaggeration. If it couldn't be delivered or gotten from a vending machine then we probably didn't eat it that year). So when offered a free meal at a restaurant, we opted to go to Carmen's Pizza. But before you judge our monochromatic tastes, you must understand just how good Carmen's Pizza is. Pizza isn't just a food, it is an art form in Chicago and its suburbs like Evanston. Decades of craftsmanship go into these delicacies so restaurants inspire fanatical devotion in their patrons for the best in Chicago-style pizza.

When I first moved to Chicago, my loyalty went to Carmen's although as I continued to live in Chicago I would eventually spend at least one year of my life living on a steady diet of pizza and wings delivered from Chicago's Pizza. But that particular evening, Bess and I insisted on going to Carmen's Pizza. When we arrived, the restaurant was full of people sampling the thin pizza, stuffed pizza, and traditional pan pizza. Their stuffed pizza is what made them famous. It is stuffed with toppings and topped with their special, secret tomato sauce then baked for a full 35 minutes. It is definitely worth the wait and in the meantime, there is salad to munch on and dessert to anticipate. You can't go to Carmen's and not have the cannoli for dessert. Carmen's cannoli is everything a cannoli should be - crispy shell overflowing with sweet ricotta and chocolate chips and dusted with pistachios. (In my opinion, it's not a real cannoli without the pistachios).

As we were waiting on our order, my mother, Bess, and I began to notice official-looking men with ear pieces and dark suits standing by the door. We made a few jokes about the Secret Service, but didn't realize we were actually right until the entire restaurant stood up and started clapping. Over the patron's heads, we saw President Carter descending the stairs. He exited slowly, taking his time to greet customers and shake hands. Including Bess's and my hands. As my mother and I were in shock, trying to process that our dinner had lead to a chance encounter with a President, Bess asked "Who was that?" (Bess is Canadian, she can't help it).

In addition to being an amazing experience - meeting a Former President and shaking his hand - it also gave Carmen's some clout in the Chicago pizza debate. After all, they can now claim a President prefers Carmen's pizza when he's in town.

This joins other food blog articles posted in Wanderfood Wednesdays on Wanderlust and Lipstick. Check them out!

Road Trip Memories - The Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, AR

Since I shared a bit about the haunted history of the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence on Tuesday, I thought today I would share an old roadtrip memory about my stay at the haunted Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas and the paranormal experiences I had there. That's right, I really believe it is haunted because I experienced some really strange things during my two-night stay, enough to convince me that The Crescent Hotel has earned it's title of "America's Most Haunted Resort Hotel."

When I was growing up in Oklahoma, my mother and sister and I would often take weekend trips to Eureka Springs for a weekend getaway. On one such trip, my mother and I decided it would be fun to stay in The Crescent. We were both fans of all things spooky but didn't put too much stock into the reports of apparitions and strange happenings. It was with this bravado that we checked into the room next door to Room 419.

There are numerous reports of ghosts and apparitions throughout the hotel. In Room 419, there is Theodora. In 1937, a man named Baker turned The Crescent Hotel into a health resort and promised miracle cures for cancer. There being no such cure, he was ultimately found guilty of fraud. But in Room 419, there remains the ghost of one of his female patients who introduces herself as Theodora to guests and staff. (Fun Fact: The ghost of Baker is also reportedly seen in the recreation room and on the stairway of the first floor).

Within the first ten minutes of entering our room, strange things started happening. We noticed the digital clock was wrong and so changed it to the correct time. But ten minutes later, the time had changed again. We corrected it several times before we really began to think about it. A clock that was changing the time by itself? Then came the television. It would turn on and off by itself, suddenly change channel, or just start showing static. For anyone who has ever seen the movie "Poltergeist", this was particularly freaky. The there was the flickering lights. They didn't turn on and off, just flickered oddly every once in a while. But still, my mother and I aren't ones to go screaming into the night because of a few electrical problems. We just made jokes about ghosts and let it go.

Until the next morning. I woke up in incredible pain. I was having stomach cramps like nothing I'd ever felt in my life. I remember lying in bed, curled into a little ball and clutching my stomach, with tears running down my face just moaning and begging for it to stop. While I was too distracted by pain to think about a cause, my mother decided she had had enough. She didn't know if there was a connection between the creepy room and my pain, but it wasn't worth the risk. She called the front desk and asked for a different room, explaining the strange things that were happening. The front desk didn't even question it. Apparently, it was not uncommon for guests staying in rooms near the haunted Room 419 to have problems and so we were immediately escorted to a new room in a part of the hotel that was supposedly less overrun with paranormal activity.

And over the next couple hours, my pain subsided. I don't know if it was being so close to that haunted room or if had anything to do with our odd clock, lights, and television. But it was spooky. My mother and I decided that we would stay one more night in our new room, then never stay in that hotel again. Sure, I love ghost tours and supernatural stories. But I don't have even the slightest desire to get that close to the paranormal again.

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Road Trip Music - We're Headed to Hell in the Handbasket

In college, I was known for making mixed tapes. I did it religiously and with a zeal usually reserved for introverted, emo high schools kids. Every tape had a theme and I spent days painstakingly calculating how to create the perfect music experience on that little cassette. When I set out with MirMir and Bess for Hell, Michigan, I jumped at the opportunity to create a mixed tape that would capture the "hellish" experience.

The original "We're Headed to Hell in a Handbasket" was actually a mixed tape. I mean literally, a mixed tape. The car we borrowed didn't have a CD player and this is before it was common for an iPod to be able to hook up to a car stereo, so as much as it might be showing my age I actually did make a mixed tape for this road trip. But time has passed, technology has improved and despite my resistance to the change I have begun to make mp3 playlists rather than mixed tapes.

So in honor loving honor of my road trip to Hell, I have made a new hell playlist with some newer music, some old classics, and in a format that more people will be able to use.

"We're Headed to Hell in a Handbasket" Playlist
1. “Run Devil Run” Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins
2. “Devil Went Down to Georgia” Charlie Daniel’s Band
3. “The Devil in Mexico” Murder by Death
4. “Hell’s Bells” AC/DC
5. “Bat Out of Hell” Meatloaf
6. “Highway to Hell” AC/DC

7. "Devil's Dance Floor" Flogging Molly
8. “Hell on Wheels” Betty Blowtorch
9. “Devil with the Black Dress On” Jack off Jill
10. “Your Sweet Six Six Six” HIM
11. “Rock and Roll ‘69” Betty Blowtorch
12. “Sacrilege” Otep
13. “Sanctuary” My Ruin
14. “Heaven’s a Lie” Lacuna Coil

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Road Trip Memories - Hell, Michigan

On Tuesday, I told you some of my favorite road trip blogs and mentioned I have traveled before with the bloggers of The Unplanned Misadventures of MirMir and Bess. It only seems fair that I should also share one of my favorite road trip destinations and the greatest roadside attraction I have ever seen - Hell. That's right. I went to Hell.

My friend Bess was a film major and working on a documentary about Hell as a place. She interviewed some religious authorities on what Hell may be as a location and then decided that MirMir and I should accompany her on a weekend trip to a little town called Hell, Michigan. We borrowed a car from MirMir's relatives and pasted a sign on the window that said, "The Handbasket," so we could go to hell in a handbasket. We then tapped a little statute of Buddy Christ (a "Dogma" reference for those who don't know) to the compass on the dashboard so we could ask Jesus which way to Hell. And I made mix tapes combining the best songs about hell that I could think of. We were off to Hell!

After a brief stop in Indiana for a speeding ticket, we made excellent time and reached the tiny town of Hell rather quickly. Hell, for those wondering, is cold in the winter. Very cold and very drizzly (For those wondering, Hell does freeze over in the winter). The town actually consisted of three buildings - a general store, an ice cream store, and a gift shop. We went to the gift shop first for souvenirs and so Bess could interview the proprietor about it was like to work in Hell. Unfortunately, the ice "screamery" was closed so our plan of getting frozen treats in Hell was quickly foiled. But we did discover you can buy postcards in the general store and send them so the postmark will read from Hell (for an extra dollar, they will also singe the edges of the card, because what is Hell without hellfire?)

Our trip was short because it started to drizzle (apparently it rains in Hell) and I was incredibly sick. But we loaded up on local wine with devilish names (Witches Brew, for those wondering) and headed to our nearby motel. Unfortunately, you can't stay overnight in Hell but there are plenty of places nearby where you can find a cheap room. We caused a bit of a stir in our little motel as we marched up to our room carrying several bags of camera equipment. It took us about ten minutes to understand why the employees were looking at us funny. After all, what would you think a bunch of young girls were doing with a camera in a motel room? I'm guessing you wouldn't think they were making a documentary about Hell.

When we got home, Bess filmed the final credits for the film which consisted of us singing an old road trip song appropriate for the occasion. It goes a little something like this:

I don't care if it rains or freezes

Long as I got my plastic Jesus

Sitting on the dashboard of my car (of my car)

He's got style and he's got class

Got a genuine magnet on his ass

He's hollow and I use him for a flask

Road Trip Memories - Why I Used to Be Scared of Haunted Houses

It's been a long time since I have been to a haunted house, so I was thrilled when my friend John agreed to go with me to The Beast and the Edge of Hell in Kansas City on Halloween weekend. But to explain why this is such an awesome trip, I feel I should explain why I haven't been to a haunted house in years.

When I was about 13 or 14, I was supposed to go to a Halloween party at my friend Sarah's house where she told me we would be watching "Halloween." Not wanting to be the one girl who got scared, I decided to watch it the night before. Alone. At night. It was not the smartest idea. Needless to say, it scared the poo out of me and I didn't sleep or turn out the lights all night.

The next night, we went to Allen Ranch in Oklahoma for a haunted hay ride and haunted house before going back to my friend Sarah's house to watch scary movies. I was a little jumpy (okay, I was very jumpy) on the haunted hay ride but ended up having a great time! It was just the right combination of cheesy werewolves and creepy Jason Vorhees with fake chainsaws to make us jump out of our skins and laugh at the same time.

But then we got to the haunted house and things went terribly wrong. There were five of us and we were having a great time, screaming whenever someone leaped out at us and laughing at how easily we had been scared by a guy in a mask. Then we came to a hallway with, you guessed it, Mike Meyers standing in the middle. I was absolutely terrified. At first we thought he was a mannequin but then we saw him tighten his grip on the knife. It's hard to explain just how scared I was. For the last twenty-four hours I had been gripped by a young girl's fear of the masked killer in Halloween. Now he was standing in front of me and the only way out was to run past him. We counted to five and took off.

He chased us. That (insert litany of descriptive swear words here) jerk chased us.

I was officially losing my mind when not only did he chase us, he cornered my friend Jackie and I. Jackie pushed me in front of her and so there I was, screaming and crying, face to face with a masked slasher who seemed to come out of a movie just to torture me. As he stood over me, wielding a knife, I forgot I was in a haunted house. My brain switched into survivor mode and I went from thinking I was a scared little girl in a haunted house to genuinely believing I was a slasher movie heroine who wasn't going to be taken down that easily.

And so I kicked him in the groin. Hard.

I kicked that masked man as hard as I could and took off running (For a cartoon illustration of what this might have looked like, check out R.K. Milholland's Something Positive.) I took out a styrofoam wall and collapsed on the cold dirt as soon as I was outside in a shaking mess to tears and snot. It was a truly pathetic sight. The people who ran the haunted house called my mother to complain about me, when she pointed out that I was a young girl who just had been cornered in the dark by a man with a weapon. She said if they didn't want me to defend myself, then they shouldn't have let a masked man trap me. They thought about it and had to let me off with a warning.

Needless to say, it would be many years before I returned to a haunted house. But I'm happy to say, I went to the Kansas City haunted houses this year and loved them! So stay tuned because next week I'll tell you about my trip to The Beast in Kansas City, the largest haunted house in the United States!

Road Trip Philosophy – Mourning the Decline of Roadside Attractions

When I was a kid, my family took a lot of road trip vacations. For spring break, we usually drove from Oklahoma to Colorado to go skiing. When we drove through Kansas, I always remember we passed a sign from the World’s Largest Prairie Dog. I would beg my father to stop so we could see it, but he always refused. “It’s not really a prairie dog,” he said. “It’s made of plastic.” I didn’t care and I still don’t. I may be in my twenties, but to me a giant plastic prairie dog is amazing and I want to see it.

Unfortunately as time goes by and we march into the future, more and more people are losing interest in the weird roadside attractions of my childhood. Eccentric Roadside recently posted an article about roadside attractions for sale. It reminded me of my trip to see the Sinclair dinosaur only to find out the gas station had closed down and the dinosaur had been stolen.

Kansas – land of wheat fields and weird things by the road – seems to be particularly susceptible to the decline. The Prairie Dog Town of my youth is now for sale for $450,000. Some say it is the change in travel habits – more people fly than drive long distances now. Some say it is the inability to compete with other forms of children entertainment – a kid isn’t going to be amazed by a giant plastic prairie dog after seeing 3D cartoons.

But I think it is a lost sense of childhood wonder that is really endangering America’s roadside attractions. When I was ten-years-old, I knew that prairie dog wasn’t alive. I didn’t care. It was amazing to me that a giant prairie dog existed. It was amazing because I was willing to be amazed. I was willing to be swept into the childhood wonder.

Roadside attractions may not live forever. The giant prairie dog may not be around for my children, grandchildren or great grandchildren. But what concerns me more is that this is a symptom of a greater disease afflicting our great nation – a cynical unwillingness to be impressed. An unwillingness to be childish and absurd is more troublesome than the loss of a giant prairie dog.

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Catching Up with an Old Friend - Oklahoma City, OK

I finally arrived in Oklahoma City just in time for a barbeque. One of Joel’s friends was hosting a barbeque of good food and plenty of beer and he was gracious enough to invite me along. Joel and I spent a lot of the time catching up on what is going on in our lives – it has been a long time since we’ve been able to sit down face to face and really talk.

Joel and I also spent a lot of time reminiscing. We talked about our old high school and our friends from the church youth group. We also talked about New Life Ranch (shudder). Joel and I both spent many summers at that Christian camp named for 2 Corinthians 5:17 (Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.) But our experiences differ significantly.

He tells stories about late nights of skinny dipping at the lake, naked wrestling, and one cabin mate’s attempt to enter the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest amount of time spent…um…enjoying himself. Yes, he remembers weeks in the woods engaging in the rather homoerotic activities of healthy young men.

My experience was very, very different. While he remembers counselors who encouraged rough housing but did try and get the guys to keep their shorts on, I remember Christian teachings and strictly enforced Bible study time, during which there was to be absolute silence. I remember being lectured about the dangers of premarital sex, how good girls did not even kiss until their wedding days, and how anyone with a different religion was not to be trusted. (One counselor believed the Chinese worshipped Buddha and would torture and kill any Christian who entered the country.)

That is not to say I never enjoyed myself at New Life Ranch. I was a rambunctious girl, so a camp in the woods was perfect for me. I insisted on learning everything I could. I spent weeks horseback riding, canoeing, kayaking, and even learning to shoot a gun. (I’m from Oklahoma – you think my childhood camp would arm me with a Bible and not a firearm?) I made great friends and together we would spend hours in the lake or camping. Hell, if it weren’t for the religious fundamentalism and scare tactics – I could easily say New Life Ranch was one of the happiest places of my childhood.

Whether thanks to or in spite of New Life Ranch, Joel and I both turned out pretty well. He is doing well in medical school and happily engaged to Aubrae, a woman so perfect for him I couldn’t have picked a better one out of a catalogue. And they already have a nice little family. Together they have a dog named Momma, an adorable mutt who wants constant affection and endless games of fetch. They also recently adopted a kitten, tentatively named Is. She is a little ball of black fur with two huge, cobalt blue eyes and is so tiny she can fit in the palm of your hand. I say “her,” but no one is quite sure yet. So until then, it is called “Is,” short for either Isabella or Isaiah.

We had a great night and then a great morning – the culinary genius Aubrae made the most amazing French Toast I’ve ever had. And then we decided to head to Tulsa for the Fourth of July. Joel’s father still lives in town so we would stay at his house, swim in the pool, and check out the fireworks. So it was back in the car and back on the road for drive to Tulsa.

Road Trip Memories - Hail to the Truck Driver!

For the July 4th weekend, I took a trip down to Oklahoma to see my friend and brother from another mother, Joel. I have known Joel over ten years when we were growing up together in Oklahoma and that is both a wonderful and frightening thing. He’s an amazing friend but I’m also pretty sure he has amassed a significant amount of blackmail material on me over the years.

Much of this blackmail material was probably gathered during church trips. Joel and I both went to the same school but didn’t actually meet until I joined our church youth group. Initially, we hated each other. Or rather, he hated me and I responded in kind. He hated me because I tore up a picture of a 99.9% germ free toilet. Really, that is how we met. We spent the next year disliking each other pretty intensely until we became friends during a church lock-in. We bonded over our love of rule breaking. The group had been given a list of contraband materials so Joel and I bonded over how many we actually had with us. He won by a landslide, but what do you expect from a guy with a gun rack on his truck?

One of the regular church trips Joel and I went on was a ski trip to Wolf Creek in Colorado over Christmas break. We would pass the long ride in the bus by playing games like poker and what-can-Kris-fit-into. (In high school I was barely 5’ 3” and weighed around a hundred pounds so we liked to see what I could squeeze into. For example, we discovered I can fit in most storage spaces on a bus, including the overhead bins.) Joel would also teach us raunchy songs to sing on the slopes.

One song Joel invented to commemorate our church bus run-in with a very angry trucker. Our bus was plodding along the road through a snowstorm, when we seem to have swiped the side mirror of a semi-truck. The trucker was not too happy with us, so he got some buddies to box us in on the side of the road. Suddenly, the bus came to a complete stop. There was a semi in front of us, a semi behind us, and a very angry trucker beside us. With a metal baseball bat, he started bashing the doors and side of the bus. He screamed obscenities and demanded the bus driver come out and face him like a man.

Chaperones began calling the police, some girls squeeled with terror, and a few guys pulled out their pocket knives (I think just in case the truck driver wanted to reenact a fight scene from “West Side Story.”) I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Meanwhile, Joel wrote a song.

We eventually got on the road again when the other two semis took off, probably when they realized we had called the police. The angry truck driver followed us for a while until we all pulled over to a truck stop where a police officer told the trucker to get over it. Interestingly, we later spent the night in a Love’s truck stop because the snow had made the roads impassable. It crossed my mind several times during the night that our belligerent trucker could be sleeping in his rig somewhere in the same parking lot.

We never did see the angry trucker again, but we kept his memory alive on the slopes. Joel wrote a song we sang all the way down the snowy mountain that weekend. And a song we still sing after a few beers.

Hail to the Truck Driver! Lyrics
(sung to the tune of Hail to the Bus Driver)

Hail to the truck driver, truck driver, truck driver!
Hail to the truck driver, truck driver man!
He drinks and he cusses,
He threatens church buses,
Hail to the truck driver, truck driver man!
He beats on the door,
With a big two-by-four,
Hail to the truck driver, truck driver man!

Road Trip Memories - Somewhere in Indiana (On Our Way to Michigan)

When I was in college, I had two of the coolest friends in the world - Bess and Mir Mir. Bess was studying film and wanted to do a documentary for a class about Hell. She interviewed numerous religious authorities about Hell as a place. She decided the narrative of the film would be our trip to Hell, Michigan. That's right, we were going to Hell!

We went all out in preparation. Mir Mir borrowed a car and we taped a figurine of Buddy Christ to the dashboard compass so we could yell "Which way to Hell, Jesus?" I put together some mix tapes to celebrate our road trip in an appropriate fashion (meaning a lot of AC/DC). The coup de gras was a cardboard sign tapped to the window - The Handbasket. We were going to Hell in the Handbasket!


We set off for Hell early one morning, AC/DC blasting on the radio as we left the big city of Chicago behind for the open highway of Indiana. But it came to a quick and sudden halt when we were pulled over by Indiana Highway Patrol. All highway cops have the same walk, they put their thumbs in the pockets and point to their packages as they saunter up to your car - keeping in mind their packages are at the drivers eye level. Even their wide legged slow approach is perverse.

After taking his time to approach the car, the cop leaned over to Mir Mir in the driver's seat and said, "Where are you in such a hurry to?" Bess shot me the dirtiest look in the world. I curled up in the backseat and covered my mouth. I wanted to say it, oh god, I wanted to say it! Mir Mir got a speeding ticket which we laughed about and as soon as the cop walked away I couldn't hold it in anymore.

"We're in a hurry to get to Hell, officer!"

Roadtrip Memories - Remembering the Glore Psychiatric Museum while Snowed In

I'm snowed in! Today I was going on a yellow brick roadtrip to Planet Comic, the comic book convention in Overland Park, Kansas. But I didn't make it a full block before my car was skidding off the road. Don't get me wrong, several years in Chicago made me a great driver even in snow and ice. But this was just ridiculous! After a few minutes weighing my own mortality against meeting the Playmate who was the model for Red Sonja, I decided it was better to spend the day with comic book, a cup of coffee and reminiscing about past trips.

So I share with you a trippy little video I made from photographs of the Glore Psychiatric Museum, and in doing so discovered the proper use for techno music!

Enjoy everyone! Hopefully I'll be able to shovel my car out tomorrow.




SNOWED IN UPDATE: I tried to leave my house again to meet up with some friends. Last time I made it almost a block before the snow got too bad. Well this time I didn't make it out of the driveway! Yup, my car got stuck in the snow only a few feet after I pulled out of the garage. Looks like I'm not going anywhere for a while! But don't worry, I'll still be updating!

Road Trip Memories - Middle of Nowhere

My family loved road trip vacations. We would drive to Omaha, Nebraska to visit my father's family or Breckenridge, Colorado to go skiing or Denton, Florida to sit on the beach. No matter how long the trip, we drove. And like any family, we had mishaps. But the funniest was at a middle of nowhere gas station off the interstate.

Separated by four lanes of speeding traffic was an Arby's and a gas station. My mom and sister were hungry so my dad dropped them off to get a bite to eat while he and I went to the gas station. He started fueling up the car and then I followed him inside to use the bathroom. A few minutes later I came out and saw a station full of truckers, but no dad. Toothless smiles and ballcaps everywhere, but no dad. I went outside but no dad. And no car.

My dad forgot me at the gas station!

Don't panic, I thought. You mother is at Arby's so he'll probably go there. I decided the quickest way to find my family and not be left in the middle of nowhere was to run across the four lanes of traffic to the restaurant. Not my smartest decision but I really didn't want to wait around with the sketchy looking truckers for my dear old dad to remember me. I could see my mother coming out of Arby's and so with all the speed I could muster, I ran.

Only later did she tell me she was screaming at me the whole time to go back. When my dad had shown up without me, she promptly started screaming at him and had sent him back to the gas station to find me. While I was running across the highway, he was looking for me. When I couldn't be found, he told me his first thought was, "My wife is going to kill me." Meanwhile, I had made it alive to the Arby's parking lot where my mother, sister and I all burst out laughing.

For years to come when I would tell people how my dad forgot me at a gas station, he would teasingly correct me, "I didn't forget you. I left you. You just found your way back."

Arg! Leave me again and see what happens, Daddy-O!