Crossing America - Red Bull, Gangsta Pants, and Tattoos Too

I love to drive long distances. But when you are attempting to move across the country and you are joined by the entourage I was responsible for, the normally simple dynamics of space and time go right out the window. In previous posts, I talked a little about space - never enough with our menagerie; today's post attempts to share some thoughts on time as well as a few other circumstances that arose as we journeyed westward.

In a simple world (or a previous life), driving across the country can be a leisurely, informative, and culturally rich experience. Taking your time on the drive, sampling the local cuisine, and visiting the occasional historical site can all make the long journey seem almost fun. However, transporting five people and eight animals in two vehicles, hauling a double-axeled trailer and working with a limited amount of time and funds can make the trip just a shade south of "fun" and a lot like National Lampoon's Vacation - minus Randy Quaid and the late Aunt Edna.

Not surprisingly, our toughest issue was time. Originally, the plan was to drive ten to twelve hours per day and to finish the trip in three nights and four days. I was quick to realize however, that my version of driving time did not include pit stops for the animals, time to eat, and most of all driving fatigue. Ten to twelve hours soon became fourteen to sixteen, and four days ended up being six.

If you own an animal, you know that despite our best efforts they often march and/or go to the bathroom on their own schedule. More importantly, arrival at the designated bathroom/rest stop area does not always guarantee instant success. Such seemingly innocuous factors as wind speed or direction, types of soil/grass, other dogs, and perhaps temperature or even their mood, may all be delaying factors.

My overly ambitious timetable was also thwarted by the amount of time it took to feed the humans on board. Visiting local eateries on our trek was never a possibility - too much time, and what would we do with the animals while we ate? To put it more succinctly, we were going to cross America one fast food restaurant at a time. From McDonald's to Subway; Jack in the Box to Arby's, we sampled them all, took our food with us in the car, and drove on. I'm convinced that if the Lewis and Clark expedition had to do the same, they would have flamed out on an Angus burger somewhere around Laramie, Wyoming and never made it to the west coast. Or maybe on an Italian club - hold the onions . . .

The good news in all of this is that I was introduced to a new and important addition to my soft drink menu - Red Bull. Having limited my previous "stimulating" experiences to innumerable cups of coffee - thereby contributing on my own to the "rest stop" factor - I found that the occasional one shot fix of a large sugar free can of Red Bull to be an answer to prayer or at least drooping eyelids. If or when Britany Spears or Lindsay Lohan burn out again in the public eye, I'm willing and ready to become the new spokesperson . . .

If time dictated changes in our plans, poor packing on my part almost made things worse. Anticipating hot weather along the way, the day before we left I purchased several pair of new shorts. Going against my normal habits, I even tried them on prior to purchase. Alas, I forgot to factor in "clothing fatigue" or the inevitable stretching out of your clothes - especially pants - the longer you wear them. Perhaps this is a phenomenon known only to me, but the result - added to the fact that I also forgot to bring a belt - all contributed to "A Dad in Middle Age" frequently wearing his shorts as low or lower than the average urban hipster - no pun intended - high school student.

To even further burn this pitiful and scary image into your memory, picture me holding said pants up and walking the dogs, or carrying luggage, or simply getting out of the car. I must admit I learned a lot of tricks - from the one hand grab and hold, the two handed quick lift, and my personal favorite, the lift and run with the luggage as fast as you can until you end up tripping on your shorts. For those who care, these same shorts now work great with a belt . . .

Finally, I noticed an odd phenomena the further west we traveled: tattoos became both more frequent and less attractive on the people we met. Granted, we were visiting a lot of fast food joints, truck stop gas stations, and accommodations far from the Ritz-Carleton - nonetheless, it seemed that quantity trumped quality wherever we went.

In the middle of summer, it's not unusual to see more skin on the people around you. Tank tops, short sleeve shirts, and the occasional tube top all testify to the August heat. But how necessary is it to cover that same skin with a myriad of tattoos featuring dragons, lizards, family pets, or the occasional boyfriend or girlfriend's name? I won't even go into the number of Chinese characters I saw etched into flesh across America's heartland. It seemed as if the entire country west of the Mississippi had discovered the show "Miami Ink" simultaneously.

Let me clearly state that I have nothing against tattoos - some of my best friends have them. However, I would like to think that if I was going to show the world my tattoo, quality - as they say - would be job #1. For most of the people I saw with tattoos, it looked as if they had done it themselves or at the very least, at a parlor down by the docks and two doors down from a biker bar . . . Several were already showing evidence of aging - the people, not the tattoos - with the end result being that their tattoos inevitably aged also - and not always well. Some markings that I saw were so stretched out their phrases were edging towards the large print editions for the sight impaired, and one or two made my drooping pants in comparison seem to fit like spandex . . .

Perhaps it was the fatigue from driving, the inevitable return to earth from the Red Bull high, or maybe even the fast food refusing to break down in my system - whatever the reason, no one I saw had tattoos of the quality much beyond my uncle's World War Two blue ink specials. Come on America, if you're gonna decorate your body permanently, at least consider how it will look 20 or 30 years from now.

As only a wife can, Julie summed up my look in the above-mentioned shorts with a phrase applicable to both the shorts and my tattoo views: "Those are hardly what I would call attractive . . ."

Sure Signs of the Apocalypse . . .

While I'm not a big believer in the end of the world theories so popular these days, there is no doubt that we live in difficult times. It is items like the following that makes these times even more difficult . . .

Charlie Brown a Rap Star?

In what is definitely one of the most jarring moments of the fall TV season - and I say this at the height of all those wonderful political commercials - I just saw the latest ad for the Halloween classic, "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!" One of my all time favorite Peanuts' specials, I look forward to seeing it year after year.

This year, however, some TV execs or marketing experts decided that the Great Pumpkin must be looking a little ragged and losing some of its appeal to the younger crowd. How best to get them back? By having the promo commercials be filled with the Peanuts characters rapping their words and inviting one and all to watch the show.

Charlie Brown, possessor of one of the most recognizable - and depressing - voices of any cartoon character, now rapping his way to the Great Pumpkin? I was so shocked, I can't even remember the words, though the images remain burned into my memory. What's next? Lucy and Peppermint Patty in a Brittany Spears video? Charles Schultz must be rolling in his grave . . .

Would you like some garlic with that book?

Moving further down the road to Perdition, in a recent visit to the local Barnes and Noble, I needed help finding a book for my youngest daughter. On our way to the juvenile reader section of the store, the woman assisting me apologized for the the apparent mess and mentioned that they were reorganizing the various sections for young readers. When I asked what prompted the need to reorganize, she told me that they were adding several new sections to the young readers division. Most prominent among the additions was the fastest growing section: "Paranormal Teen Romance".

To quote Weekend Update anchors Amy Poehler and Seth Myers, "Really?" An entire section devoted to completely improbable and even dangerous fictional romances involving werewolves and vampires? Novels that have their heroes and heroines struggling with such everyday issues as the choices between immortality and romance with either of the aforementioned Gothic-like characters or just a date with pimply-faced Johnny or Susie at the local burger joint? Isn't it tough enough to feel you're in love as a teenager without having to worry about the possible need for a blood transfusion after your first kiss? Seems to me at the very least, that checking the size of your date's teeth before you go out with them suddenly becomes a top priority . . .

As if the 1989 earthquake wasn't a big enough sign . . .

Finally, the San Francisco Giants won the World Series. I can smell the sulphur already . . .

Texting on Horseback, the Second Amendment, and Niche Marketing . . .

A few notes from our sojourn thus far in the Beaver State . . .

Oregon is a beautiful state. Lush, pine-filled hills and mountains, deep river-cut valleys, and a climate that can't be beat, it would be hard to argue for a more scenic place to live. Add no sales taxes to the mix, and there are some economic benefits as well.

However, every state has its little quirks . . .

My first experience with Oregon's quirkiness came one day while I was out driving in downtown Grants Pass. Talking to my wife on the phone, I was surprised to see flashing police lights in my rear view mirror. After pulling over in a local taco stand parking lot, I was politely informed by the officer that it was against the law in Oregon to text or use a cell phone while driving. In addition, the fine for said malfeasance was $142.00. Suddenly, the economics of having no sales tax made sense . . .

Regardless of economics, or perhaps because of it, there was no way I wished to pay $142.00. Seeking to channel all of my mental dexterity and verbal skills into a reversal of my plight - in short, I was preparing to beg for forgiveness - I opted instead for the old "ignorance is bliss" standby. With Virginia license plates still on my car and my newly-minted (legitimate) Oregon driver's license now in the officer's hands, I pleaded true ignorance of the law. I am forever grateful for the reprieve that resulted from my plea.

Of course, on the drive home, I spotted at least seven or eight drivers all happily discussing some aspect of their lives on a cell phone. Those particular violations and flaunting of the law I could handle. However, about a mile from home on a less busy thoroughfare, I witnessed a more flagrant violation of the "no texting or cell phone use while driving" law. Seems there was a young girl riding her horse down the road and calmly texting with both hands at the same time. A first for me I have to admit, and had I received a ticket for my violation, you can be certain I would have reported this young girl's flaunting of the law. There's something about seeing a horse and its rider pulled over by the police that appeals to my darker side . . .

Though some would say that witnessing the congruence of horse-driven transportation and cell phone technology is a significant enough experience for anyone, there have been other notable events during our time here . . .

While relaxing with my oldest daughter recently outside a local coffee house, three locals showed up to enjoy some java as well. After getting their coffee, the three settled down to an animated discussion about a truck in front of the local courthouse that was prominently displaying a mysterious flag. Mexican? Iraqi? No one seemed to know. Suddenly, two of the men got up, reached into their car, and one of them retrieved a pistol and strapped it to his leg. Fully armed, both men set off down the street to determine the flag's origins and I assume, the owner's intent.

New to this wild west implementation of the second amendment, we decided to drive by the courthouse on our way home. Turns out there was indeed a mystery flag planted in a truck in front of the courthouse. Standing there as well, pistol fully in view, was our NRA man in an apparently friendly discussion with a man and his wife protesting the plight of the Palestinians. Hard to say which piece of the tableau was more jarring - the citizen walking down the street with the pistol or the fact that someone would choose to protest the plight of the Palestinians in front of the Josephine County courthouse in Grants Pass, Oregon. Putting them together couldn't help but tilt the earth just a bit off its axis . . .

Finally, while homelessness is a serious issue in this country, Oregon and especially Josephine county, offers numerous well-funded programs and shelter opportunities for those who seek assistance. Despite this, there are a significant number of individuals who opt for some of the more time-honored methods of asking for money, food, or work in different locations around the area. Usually at the bottom of freeway off ramps, major intersections, or even outside the local Wal-Mart, many have developed a type of niche marketing or signature brand to make themselves stand out and thus increase their opportunities for receiving assistance.

Signage seems important no matter where the location. One gentleman, known affectionately as the "Sandwich Man", has been at the same intersection for months with a simple sign asking for 25 cents for a sandwich. Not a bad request when you think about it - not too much, not too little, who could argue? Another's sign seems more to the point: "I take anything green!" Even more direct was one gentlemen on the corner outside a local Taco Bell: "I need a burrito!" Some don't request anything for themselves directly. Instead, I've noticed several signs that request money for food for their dogs - an ingenious request, particularly if the dog or dogs are obediently seated or prostrate at their side.

The most clever system for raising funds however, has to go to the people I have named the "tag team group". Located at a freeway off ramp, this group parks a car under the nearby overpass, and while two of them sit in the car and read the paper, the other solicits funds at the stop sign. Often, there would be a dog available to complete the picture. While I was not aware of the exact length of each shift, they alternated people and perhaps dogs, several times each day. Not a bad strategy - especially in the hot summer months.

Equestrian texting, Palestinian protesters meeting the NRA, and Madison Avenue marketing for the homeless - never a dull moment in the Pacific Northwest. Perhaps it can all best be summed up by the city of Grants Pass' time worn theme emblazoned on a sign over main street - "It's the Climate!" . . .