Notes from The Fun Car*
Today's post contains adult language. Sorry, Mom.

The best part of a road trip with friends is the dialogue that emerges on the road. 18-21 hours together in a car can make anyone punchy. Here are some highlights. We wrote them down.

*The other thing about a road trip this long is that there is no fun car. After about 45 minutes you just want to be there already. I've omitted the slap fighting and threats to turn this car around, little missy.

Running into traffic at the Delaware Tolls:
The Manda: *sounds from Primal Scream Therapy*
Special K: We used to be the fun car. Now we're the angry car, fueled by resentment and broken dreams.
The Manda: Balls!
The Suz: I guarantee this is all caused by one asshole who had to cut over to pay cash.
The Manda: Dear Delaware: Suck it! Love, Manda.


Crossing the Delaware Bridge and seeing the phone number for the "Crisis Hotline:"
The Manda: I want to call that number. I'm having a crisis. (Holds hand to ear, phone-style) 'Hello? No, I'm not going to jump. I just don't know what I want to do with my life. And I've been in the car since Thursday! Homeless? No, I have a home. That's part of the problem...'

On the New Jersey Turnpike and Garden State Parkway:
Special K: Welcome to New Jersey?
Manda: It seems right to listen to hair metal in New Jersey.... Oooh. Write that down!
Special K: We need more cowbell.
Manda: We need more Van Halen.
Special K: David Lee Roth is our co-pilot.
(Hitting traffic on the Parkway, after switching to another playlist)
Special K: WTF? The Van Halen was protecting us.
Manda: I got Def Leppard's greatest hits somewhere in the CD box.
(At the next tollbooth)
Manda: I'm paying the state of New Jersey to take away the sanity I just rallied for.
(Rolling out of the tollbooth and resuming normal speed)
Special K: There is traffic magic in the hair band. (To stereo) OK, I will pour some sugar on you if you would just get the traffic moving.
(Power ballad comes on. Manda hits Forward)
The Manda: The first rule of traffic is no power ballads.
Special K: The second rule of traffic is never talk about the first rule.

Entering Connecticut
Special K: Welcome to Connecticut. Michael Hutchence is now our co-pilot.
The Manda: Welcome to New England. Take your mini van and get the fuck out of our way.

Passing a power line with the big multicolored balls on it
The Suz: I've always wondered what those big balls on power lines were for.
Special K: Maybe they're to keep birds off. Maybe they're electric balls.
The Manda: Ooh! Electric Balls. That's a great name for a funk band. 'Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Electric Balls!'....Write that down.

A Billboard near New Haven:
Special K: Exxxotic Haloween Costumes. See how they spelled exxxotic with three x's. Sexy.
The Manda: And classy.

Entering Rhode Island:
Special K: Rhode Island is neither a rhode nor an island. Discuss.

The Suz lending her usual critical analysis of pop music.

The Suz on Journey's "Separate Ways": So this is about some guy who had a one night stand with a woman and now he's sitting around in some sad little room in case she leaves the other guy she's with? This song is kind of pathetic.
Manda and Special K: Yeah, but it rocks!

The Suz on The Who's classic "Behind Blue Eyes": This is not a happy song.
The Manda: Ooh! Ooh! Right. I know this one. 'Oh, I'm so fucked up. Nobody understands how fucked up I am.' I used to know that guy! But he had green eyes...
Special K: Yeah, but it rocks!
The Manda: It does, indeed, rock.

 The Manda Relives a Moment From Her Youth



The last time I remember going to theWaffle House was a stop with The Heathen my last semester of college. We were on the way back to campus after driving many hours to and from my grandmother's funeral.


The Waffle House* was always the go-to location for eating after a night out at the fraternities or, when we were feeling especially fancy, a bar or club. We had a local diner as well, Dottie's, which I hope is still there, but Dottie's was all the way on the other side of town, and sometimes we just couldn't make it that far.

And sometimes you want to order something "scattered, covered, smothered, and diced." Those would be the hashbrowns, and they fry those bad boys up in a ring filled with grease before the scattering, smothering, covering and dicing commences.

At 2:00 in the morning the Waffle House clientele is a little, well, different. I had a friend in college who used to call it "the who's who of mental illness." Not sure that applies, but it's a reasonably cheerful mix of sauced college kids, truck drivers, second shifters, and maybe a few oddities thrown in for flavor. It's great people watching.

Down South, there's a Waffle House on just about every interstate exit, and this feature is the primary redeeming quality of I-95 in northern Maryland. On our harebrained adventure to our nation's capital, I was promised a waffle, and I got a waffle.

The clientele on a Sunday morning includes people coming out of church, people going to church, weirdos who have just attended a rally to restore comedy, and lightly sauced college kids.

They don't have the Waffle House up North. The Suz and I have thought about selling all our stuff and getting the first franchise in Massachusetts. We figure we'd make a killing or end up killing each other.

I mention this because K-Rock and Special K were Waffle House Virgins. NayNay knew about it as a result of a long-distance relationship that ended years ago but carried on far too long. And The Suz and me, it goes without saying, are old hands at the Waffle House, even though neither of us had been to one in at least a decade.

It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget how to order. There were hashbrowns. There was bacon. There were eggs. Don't judge me, but I passed on the grits-- turns out you can get them in New England if you know where to look, but you can't get anything scattered, smothered, covered and diced without facing felony charges.

And the waffle, all crispy around the edges, butter melting into the little squares. Who cares if the maple syrup is real?

It was glorious. Even more glorious than the signage at the rally. It was absolutely worth driving 8 hours each way.

We left the Waffle House the only way anyone can ever leave the Waffle House: stuffed. Special K remarked as we got into the car, "At least our farts will smell like maple syrup." I couldn't possibly take credit for a line like that, and I don't have much to follow it either.

*Style guides take note: Despite its official name Waffle House, the Waffle House is one of those rarefied institutions that should always include a definite article when referenced in conversation or writing. See also, the Wal-Mart, and the K&W.

Dear Giants--

Thank you.

Just so you know, though, you're stuck with me now.

Love,
Manda

Glorious Glorious Signage- Round One

People who know me, know that I love to take photos of signs. I have a collection of photos from the American West that all read "Nugget" in some form or another. Weird. Arsty. Touristy. Whatever. I dig signs.

So an event like the Rally to Restore Sanity held a plethora of appeal for me. Hell, I couldn't get anywhere near the stage, and if I wanted to watch the Jumbotron, I could have had the same effect by staying at home and watching the event in my jammies.

The Suz and I went out on the move, getting the best-- well, maybe not the best, but certainly the most visible-- of the signage the event had to offer.

Below is a sampling-- some with captions. Someday, when I have more patience with facebook's uploader, I'll add these to my feed over there.

The most meaningful message of the day...

We like the way this one thinks.

Mutual photo op... Giants fan....

I prefer MLA or Chicago Style, but AP works too....

And just in time....

This guy's hat allows him to taste color.

According to our cab driver, this is actually true...

Ms. Smith (and K-Rock, Special K, NayNay and the Suz) Return from Washington

There's a moment, in any city, just as the sun is peeking over the horizon, when most of the city is still asleep save for a few garbage and delivery trucks-- maybe the odd taxi-- when everything is quiet, and if you're lucky enough to be out on the sidewalk, it feels like the whole place is yours alone. This is the most beautiful moment in the urban day, and at a moment like that even Washington D.C. looks pretty damn good.

NayNay and I got to be part of that magical morning time today as we made our way from our dodgy hotel to the parking garage. It felt like the right way to end a weekend that turned out to be unexpectedly wonderful. But the weekend was mostly about politics and baseball for me, so, really how could it get much better than that?

I said I was too apathetic to make a sign, and I was. Luckily, other people were more industrious than I. So I went with the panda hat, one more time. As a result, I am happy to announce the discovery of Giants Nation. Mine was one of three panda hats I spotted on the Mall yesterday, and people kept coming up to me for fist bumps and stopping on the street to cheer at me. Nobody thought I was celebrating the National Zoo, which was a concern for me going in. I'm not going to lie.

That's the Money Shot-- which is why I look so serious. When I accomplish my plans to take over the U.S. Government, I'll have that photo put on all the currency. Yeah, I know: "Manda, why don't you just make it easy on yourself and take over some marginally stable Third World country?"

And I say to you: "Where's the fun in that? If it was easy, everyone would do it."

Or I could say that the U.S. is pretty close to being a marginally stable Third World country already, as evidenced by the angry morass of humanity milling about out there.

I'll break down more highlights (the Garden State Parkway, Waffle House, Mulletwatch 2010, the glorious glorious signage, my regrets at not bumping up against Eddie Izzard) as the week continues, provided something more interesting doesn't happen. Right now, I have more than 250 photos to edit, the Game is on, and I just spent 18-21 of the last 48 hours driving a car up and down the Northeast Corridor.