road trip test run
I guess the real question is that that if Rico's feeling up to a road trip, why are we in Council Bluffs, Iowa? You know, the home of drive-through tabacco and booze huts.
Clearly, the families leaving the Golden Corral had not been fully satiated, as the line for this thing was a dozen cars long. But I digress . . .
The short answer to that question is: because we can.
The longer answer would be: because Omaha is closer than Chicago, and we couldn't sit still.
We don't feel comfortable going too far or too long, but we figured if we reversed our usual roles, we might be able to handle it.
I'm still not sure it's working out.
ME AS THE PASSENGER: Uuuuuuuuuuugggggg, are we there yet? There is nothing to dooooooo in Iowa. Can we turn it back to the 80's station? Uuuuuuuuuuugggggg are we there yet?
ME AS THE DRIVER: Hey, let's stop at the Windmill museum. Wanna check out this big rock Yoda? The sun - the sun is burning my retnas!!! How did I not see that lake before? Ooooh look a squirrel!
RICO AS THE DRIVER: If my estimations are correct, we'll arrive in DesMoines at approximately 12:23, just in time for lunch. Then we can make a short detour to pick ripe cherries for a snack, before getting to our hotel at roughly 6:13.
RICO AS THE PASSENGER: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ice cream - I need ice cream. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Regardless, we made it to Clear Lake, Iowa, before the rain hit.
We were there for one reason - a reason I can't believe we've bypassed so often. We stopped to pay to homage at the Surf Ballroom and the crash site memorial of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.
My brother and I were raised by a 60's DJ who was waiting in Moorhead, Minnesota, for the concert that never happened. Our road trips consisted of Buddy Holly 8-tracks and lyrical lessons on "The Day The Music Died."
I'm still not sure how we found our way to the site through four miles of dirt roads. Rico asked me several times how I knew where I was going. My only answer was, "My Dad won't let us down."
He didn't. Despite bullfrogs and locusts of biblical proportions, Yoda and I braved ankle deep mud, to make the quarter mile trek through a Midwest cornfield to the crash site memorial. Rico held vigil at the van where at least two dozen others were making the same journey.
Four hours later, we found ourselves bypassing the windmill museum (hey, we'll be back, those are my people), and covering gummy bears and marshmallows in the chocolate fountain at Golden Corral - you know, because everybody's got their vice, and the line at the smoke shop drive through was just too d@m^ long.
Clearly, the families leaving the Golden Corral had not been fully satiated, as the line for this thing was a dozen cars long. But I digress . . .
The short answer to that question is: because we can.
The longer answer would be: because Omaha is closer than Chicago, and we couldn't sit still.
We don't feel comfortable going too far or too long, but we figured if we reversed our usual roles, we might be able to handle it.
I'm still not sure it's working out.
ME AS THE PASSENGER: Uuuuuuuuuuugggggg, are we there yet? There is nothing to dooooooo in Iowa. Can we turn it back to the 80's station? Uuuuuuuuuuugggggg are we there yet?
ME AS THE DRIVER: Hey, let's stop at the Windmill museum. Wanna check out this big rock Yoda? The sun - the sun is burning my retnas!!! How did I not see that lake before? Ooooh look a squirrel!
RICO AS THE DRIVER: If my estimations are correct, we'll arrive in DesMoines at approximately 12:23, just in time for lunch. Then we can make a short detour to pick ripe cherries for a snack, before getting to our hotel at roughly 6:13.
RICO AS THE PASSENGER: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Ice cream - I need ice cream. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Regardless, we made it to Clear Lake, Iowa, before the rain hit.
We were there for one reason - a reason I can't believe we've bypassed so often. We stopped to pay to homage at the Surf Ballroom and the crash site memorial of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper.
My brother and I were raised by a 60's DJ who was waiting in Moorhead, Minnesota, for the concert that never happened. Our road trips consisted of Buddy Holly 8-tracks and lyrical lessons on "The Day The Music Died."
I'm still not sure how we found our way to the site through four miles of dirt roads. Rico asked me several times how I knew where I was going. My only answer was, "My Dad won't let us down."
He didn't. Despite bullfrogs and locusts of biblical proportions, Yoda and I braved ankle deep mud, to make the quarter mile trek through a Midwest cornfield to the crash site memorial. Rico held vigil at the van where at least two dozen others were making the same journey.
Four hours later, we found ourselves bypassing the windmill museum (hey, we'll be back, those are my people), and covering gummy bears and marshmallows in the chocolate fountain at Golden Corral - you know, because everybody's got their vice, and the line at the smoke shop drive through was just too d@m^ long.
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