On the road, agian
The Chrysler's nav system is voiced by a woman.
We named her Lola.
She's a stupid bitch.
That was harsh.
One of the modes you can select is fastest route. Lola will look for that route, then (hen-peck) correct you until you do what she says. And she'll continue to recalculate the route.
In the backcountry, I'm a map-and-compass kinda guy. I don't own a GPS unit. I prefer seeing what I can see.
So when I drive, sometimes just following the signs is the best alternative.
I turned Lola off.
"I hope you didn't fuck her up," dad said.
"We are not listening to this shit all the way to Iowa."
And my experiment with the punk channel came to an abrupt end.
"Daddy, pick something we can all enjoy," said first sister, who hopped in the backseat for the 250-mile trip to Iowa.
His choice?
Rocking Roadhouse.
Shitty country.
I would rather have my testicles pinched by a midget transvestite than listen to country music.
I quietly plugged my iPod into my head and turned up the volume.
Of course, he wanted to talk.
He kept bumping my arm.
I'd take an earbud out.
It was his way of saying he wanted me to buffer him from first sister.
He made a new Sirius selection.
60s Vibrations.
I could live with that.
The plume of black smoke announced something interesting on the Interstate.
A car completely in flames (we suspect it was a Saturn).
Over pizza, first sister's husband and I talked about the flaming car; dad wondered if anyone got hurt.
"What car was on fire?" first sister asked.
"The car on the side of the road? The one in flames, melting right on the side of the road?"
"Uhh-uuunn."
I still don't know how you fuck up and Americano.
It's espresso and hot water.
Apparently, in the Midwest, it means something else. But I can't put my finger on it.
I will try again, until I succeed, to find a decent Americano in the Midwest. First Sister has high hopes for her place in Iowa, which I will try.
I'm not holding my breath.
And finally, the Chrysler only got 24 miles to the gallon on the trip up.
(I was speeding most of the way.)
Dad's been a wee bit focused on that. Positively anal about it.
And has bitched about the price of a gallon of gas since I've been here. We play the game, "Hey, Gas is (insert price and point); Christ That's Expensive."
(They have gas stations in the Midwest called "Kum and Go;" I snicker every time we pass one of those. I mean, c'mon. Kum and Go? I think I saw that porn movie.)
Before this roadtrip even started, I was having breakfast with dad's cronies at the Hy-Vee. They all were bitching and moaning over the price of gas.
Each and every one of them to a man voted for Bush, who brought in all his cronies - especially Cheney - and decided to fuck everyone else over, while big business post record profits.
Especially the oil companies.
I wanted so much to scream.
I just sipped my shitty Americano instead.
We named her Lola.
She's a stupid bitch.
That was harsh.
One of the modes you can select is fastest route. Lola will look for that route, then (hen-peck) correct you until you do what she says. And she'll continue to recalculate the route.
In the backcountry, I'm a map-and-compass kinda guy. I don't own a GPS unit. I prefer seeing what I can see.
So when I drive, sometimes just following the signs is the best alternative.
I turned Lola off.
"I hope you didn't fuck her up," dad said.
"We are not listening to this shit all the way to Iowa."
And my experiment with the punk channel came to an abrupt end.
"Daddy, pick something we can all enjoy," said first sister, who hopped in the backseat for the 250-mile trip to Iowa.
His choice?
Rocking Roadhouse.
Shitty country.
I would rather have my testicles pinched by a midget transvestite than listen to country music.
I quietly plugged my iPod into my head and turned up the volume.
Of course, he wanted to talk.
He kept bumping my arm.
I'd take an earbud out.
It was his way of saying he wanted me to buffer him from first sister.
He made a new Sirius selection.
60s Vibrations.
I could live with that.
The plume of black smoke announced something interesting on the Interstate.
A car completely in flames (we suspect it was a Saturn).
Over pizza, first sister's husband and I talked about the flaming car; dad wondered if anyone got hurt.
"What car was on fire?" first sister asked.
"The car on the side of the road? The one in flames, melting right on the side of the road?"
"Uhh-uuunn."
I still don't know how you fuck up and Americano.
It's espresso and hot water.
Apparently, in the Midwest, it means something else. But I can't put my finger on it.
I will try again, until I succeed, to find a decent Americano in the Midwest. First Sister has high hopes for her place in Iowa, which I will try.
I'm not holding my breath.
And finally, the Chrysler only got 24 miles to the gallon on the trip up.
(I was speeding most of the way.)
Dad's been a wee bit focused on that. Positively anal about it.
And has bitched about the price of a gallon of gas since I've been here. We play the game, "Hey, Gas is (insert price and point); Christ That's Expensive."
(They have gas stations in the Midwest called "Kum and Go;" I snicker every time we pass one of those. I mean, c'mon. Kum and Go? I think I saw that porn movie.)
Before this roadtrip even started, I was having breakfast with dad's cronies at the Hy-Vee. They all were bitching and moaning over the price of gas.
Each and every one of them to a man voted for Bush, who brought in all his cronies - especially Cheney - and decided to fuck everyone else over, while big business post record profits.
Especially the oil companies.
I wanted so much to scream.
I just sipped my shitty Americano instead.
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