Things that go bump in the night...

J and I just returned from a camping trip with our good friends, Kara and Patrizio, up at Lost Lake in the Mt. Hood National Forest. We've all camped up there together before and even have a favorite campsite (B11) - a two-bedroom site with a cozy living room and a secluded "opium den." This site is tucked back off of the road and has an incredible amount of privacy - as far as car camping is concerned, it's teh shit. Pretty much the only time we saw other campers was when we ventured out of our campsite, with the exception of about five or so who happened to walk down the road that connects our site to the rest of the world. And, with the exception of what sounded like a rockin' party a few sites down, we never really heard any of our neighboring campers either. Keep in mind that we camp on Mon/Tues/Wed typically - no guarantees of what the population there might be like on the weekend.

Besides the feeling of being secluded in the woods, we like the lake itself at Lost Lake. There are no motorized boats, jet skis or the like allowed on the lake and so the water is pristinely clear and doesn't taste nasty. The view from the middle of the lake, due to the proximity of Mt. Hood is pretty damn stunning. One of my favorite things to do at Lost Lake is to rent a row boat and take a bottle of wine and some cheese (well, and a loved one, of course) and row to the middle and just chill.

There are a few good hikes at Lost Lake: the perimeter of the lake is about 3 1/2 miles, flat, easy and in the shade (there are sometimes a lot of bugs, though); the Old Growth Trail is the sort of one mile jaunt/nature walk that might be especially enjoyable to small children or nonhikers; the Butte trail is our favorite - a moderate two-mile climb up about 1500 feet with a very rewarding view at the top (of course, the two miles back down is a cinch). Between the hike up and the hike back down, we saw fewer than ten other hikers on the trail or at the summit. I think they have some other trails there, as well, including another moderate climb, but these are the ones we like most.

On our first day, after establishing ourselves and getting our site set up, we gathered 'round the picnic table for our 'Happy Hour' (this is a tradition whenever we camp with Kara and Patrizio - I guess you could say that we're glam campers). While enjoying our martinis and appetizers, we happened to notice a plastic sign stapled to the picnic table. It was a warning about the presence of bears and that ALL food odors attract bears and that it was essential to pack all food, coolers, cooking equipment and dishes, as well as any cosmetics/shampoos, soaps, into your car at night. We all swear that this sign was not there the last time we camped at Lost Lake. Now, being experienced campers, we've always put our non-chilled food items back in the car at night (I've learned the hard way that chipmunks love trail mix and the raccoons go batty for Jet-Puffed marshmallows). But our coolers have latches (one requires a button to be pushed in while the handle is simultaneously slid down - trust me, most forest animals would not be able to figure that out) and our campstove and clean dishes have always been left out with nary a problem.

We contemplated this sign, along with the extra effort involved in reloading the car each night with almost all of our gear. We wondered if there had been some sort of incident involving a bear that had prompted this warning. Filing that one away under 'better safe than sorry,' we loaded everything that had encountered food, along with actual food and the coolers, back into the car after our delicious dinner of penne pasta with a Caponata sauce and a couple of bottles of Montepulciano. The few cracker crumbs that fell on the ground during happy hour were intentionally left for Chip and Dale, the friendly chipmunks who seemed to be our self-appointed foster pets.

Flash forward to a still night and sound sleeping being enjoyed by all when suddenly, at 3am, a loud gunshot was heard. This sound was unmistakably the sound of a gunshot and, while it didn't sound like it was actually in our campsite per se, it didn't sound like it was too terribly far away either. J and I shot up in our tents and looked at each other.

"What the fuck was that???" we pretty much said in unison.

"It sounded like a fucking gunshot."

"No, it WAS a gunshot," J clarified.

We sat there, still, contemplating the possibilities as well as our options. Perhaps we even began to doubt that what we heard was actually a gunshot and more likely just a loud noise that woke us and we were quick to chalk it up as a gunshot. The gears were turning...what other sorts of loud banging sounds might be heard in a campground at 3am? But then we heard it again. It was definitely a gunshot. We may be cityfolk, but we ain't stooopid. J began to literally shake in her shoes (although she was not wearing any...yet). I didn't know what to do or what to say to her that might seem calming, so I just sat there thinking.

We heard the sound of the zipper on Kara and Patrizio's tent being unzipped. J wondered aloud if "it" was trying to "get" our dear friends. I told her that it was probably Patrizio trying to figure out what the sound was. J heard the zipper again and continued worrying about the welfare of our friends. I found this sound reassuring, figuring that if our friends were out and about and we weren't hearing any sounds of alarm or panic from them, everything was probably fine. J arrived at a more ominous conclusion from hearing the sounds of footsteps in our immediate vicinity.

Thoroughly convinced that a mass-murderer or a bear was lurking outside of our tent, J put on her shoes, grabbed my pocket knife in one hand and her Maglite flashlight in the other - she was determined to do a number on anyone who dared to even think about venturing into our territory. I gave her a look which, obviously, she couldn't see, but she clearly sensed.

"I want to be able to run," she rationalized, obviously referring to the shoes.

"I think I want to go to the car," she continued. Our car? The one packed with all of our gear that we were convinced not to leave out? I wasn't following her logic here. Again, she intuited my ponderings.

"I'll feel more safe in the car," she'd decided.

"Honey," I told her, "there is no room for sleeping in the car with all of that gear and it wouldn't be comfortable to sleep sitting up." She wasn't convinced. I wasn't sure what to tell her. She was clearly terrified and, as for me, well, I was a little bit scared, but more about the gunshots and what that entailed than I was about anything being in the immediate vicinity. And, even if there had been something or someone just outside of our tent, I look at it this way: whoever/whatever it is has no idea who is inside the tent, whether they are male or female, weak or strong, old or young, crazy or not crazy, armed or not armed...you get the picture. Therefore, someone would have to be either really brave or really stupid to lurk outside someone's tent in the middle of the night. It was at this point that I recalled an adage that has been circulated by my friend Michael and that is reputed to come from an old man in Brooklyn. The old man said, with regard to fear of flying, if it's my time to go, then it's my time to go...and if it's the pilot's time to go, then it's my time to go, too. This philosophy seemed apropos. However, I still had a trembling wife on my hands.

It was at that moment that we heard a loud cough, clearly Patrizio's. I assured J that it was Patrizio and the sense that there was an immediate threat began to subside. Still not knowing what the hell the gunshots were all about, we somehow managed to get right back to sleep.

We discussed the ominous gunshot sounds with Kara and Patrizio over breakfast but, natch, nobody had any leads on what had actually happened. When J and Patrizio went to the little store by the lake to get more ice before we embarked on our hike, they asked the clerk about the two gunshots heard at 3am.

"Are you two gun activists?" the clerk - exactly what you'd picture if someone said 'big Harley Davidson guy' - retorted.

"Um, no, we aren't gun activists," Patrizio responded.

"Then how do you know it was a gunshot?" HDg challenged.

"I know what gunshots sound like," said Patrizio, still somewhat confused by why HDg seemed to imply that only a 'gun activist' might be able to identify the sound of a gun shooting. Had he meant 'gun enthusiast'?

"Well, I didn't hear anything last night and this is the first I've heard of any gunshots heard, so I don't know what to tell you."

J and Patrizio left with three bags of ice, but no info on the gunshots. Before bed that next night, we all joked about hoping we didn't hear gunshots in the middle of the night again.

We were awakened about an hour into our sleep by the loud sound of a dog yelping, as if it were hurt or afraid. It was drastically different than a howling or barking sound. For some reason, the sound of someone/something hurting or frightening a dog was not the least bit alarming to us and we went instantly back to sleep.

And we're not even dog activists.

who's the bad kitty now?

Last day of vacation and we're pretty ready to be home. We're tired, we're hot, we're grouchy and we all want to sleep in our own beds, for a change.

Nevermind that we ALMOST RAN OUT OF GAS on our last leg of the roadtrip...

We pull up in front of our still newish-to-us townhouse and we're all delighted to see our Edward Scissorhands-ish abode. J was talking about how much she missed our kitties and how she was looking forward to seeing them. She jumped out of the car and ran to our front door. I tried to grab a couple of random items, figuring it'd be less to lug in later.

The smiles of excitement on our faces, as our key was unlocking our front door, turned to utter disgust as we stepped into our home and took a big whiff of the hot, muggy, cat-urine infested air.

What the fuh...?

Our cats had sitters and were well fed and paid attention to while we were away but, somehow, this was not sufficient for them and they were angry. They were pissed. They pissed!

All over our dining room carpet.

And our living room carpet.

And our kitchen wood laminate flooring.

It was utterly disgusting. They'd never done this before.

We busted out the Nature's Miracle. We lit scented candles. We opened the windows and turned up the fans. After a few hours of cleaning and wiping down surfaces, our home smelled like Pineapple Cilantro candle. AND cat pee.

We'd been considering tearing up our carpet and installing wood laminate flooring on the entire downstairs living area, but that was to be next year's home improvement project. Should we consider doing that now? Or just borrow a friend's carpet shampooer? Or call a professional cleaner for the carpets?

We opted for the latter and selected a gay-friendly, environmentally-conscious carpet cleaning service to do the job. Karen found the concept of gay-friendly carpet cleaning to be a hoot, but hey, I don't want negative angry energy directed at me in my home, so we use gay-friendly services whenever possible. Besides, this way the money that we pay them won't later be used against us politically.

Well, the carpet cleaners came yesterday and -even though it smelled 100% better when our carpets were saturated with their nontoxic chemicals- the smell came back as soon as the carpets dried. Turns out that the angry urine invasion was pretty pervasive, plummetting deep below the carpet surface and through the pad underneath, then onto (into?) the sub-floor. This is a larger problem, we are told. This will require a tearing up of the carpet, discarding the pad beneath it, painting the affected area with a product called "KILLZ" (something every aspiring Buddhist should use, no doubt), then re-covering the floor. It looks like our wood laminate remodel will be happening much sooner than we'd originally intended.

In the meantime, the enviro-friendly carpet folks gave me some volcanic ash to sprinkle around and then vacuum up after several hours. Yes, volcanic ash. Who knows if this will help rid our home of the odor in the meantime. I do not understand at all how volcanic ash of all things will be plucking each and every odor particle from the air and taking it away forever.

We shall see.

Californiacation

While standing in line for the Pacific Spin at Soak City, the little boy who got his swim trunks pocket torn off by his dad was goofing off with (presumably) his brother while waiting the 45 minutes to get to the start of the ride. During that time, we overheard this fellow (who had maybe 6 or 7 years under his belt) proclaim, "You know, most people don't survive this ride."

We all laughed out loud at this and the young fellow was none the wiser. But, did he really think he might die on the ride? And, if so, what did he suppose they did with all of the dead bodies? And how did they procure so many repeat riders wanting more? I suppose it's possible that he meant something different by this, but what?

Then, while in line for a different ride, about ten kids from a summer camp were separating me from J and K, who'd seen them coming and ran ahead. No worries, though, as the line for this ride went pretty quickly and it was enjoyed on an individual basis. While waiting, a cute African-American girl strikes up a conversation with me.

"Do you have any sons or daughters?"

"Yes, I have one daughter who is ahead of us in line, the blond girl with the orange swimsuit," I tell her. I then add that I wasn't fast enough to get in line with my family before the kids from the summer camp came over and that is why we aren't standing in line together.

She checks K out, then asks me, " Have you ever been on that ride?" she says, pointing to the Pacific Spin.

I tell her that I was in line for that ride, but didn't get to go on it because they didn't like how my swim trunks were. I wasn't sure if she followed or not, but then she says, "I was wondering why you were wearing your boxer shorts."

I explain to her that I find the shorts more comfortable than a swimsuit like hers. I refrain from adding anything about "when you get to be my age" or from using the phrase "fucking fat-phobic Southern Californians thinking that anyone over size 8 is obese" and she seems cool, yet perplexed by my response.

Her friend asks me if the ride we're waiting for is scary and I tell her that it isn't. I then feel compelled to qualify my statement since I don't find very many rides "scary" and these girls are about 8 years old. I explain to them that it's dark for a little bit and then light and that it goes pretty fast and that water dumps on your head. The friend admits that she's somewhat afraid of the dark and I assure her that it won't be dark for very long. The African-American girl then poses a serious question to me.

"Do you bond with your daughter?"

Holy crap. Did I hear this kid correctly? What an odd question. Perhaps she said something else or means something different by it.

"What do you mean?" I asked her.

"You know, how moms and dads bond with their daughters?" Yowsa, did she learn about this at summer camp?

"Do you mean, like, hanging out with her and doing special things together with her?" I ask for clarification.

"Yeah, like that."

"Oh, sure, we bond."

Where on earth do kids get this stuff?

Other observations from California

1. WAY too much use of styrofoam. Unbelievable.
2. Drove past a shop in Oxnard, CA, called "Retarded Persons Thrift Store"
3. "Gum Alley" in San Luis Obispo is a little bit cool and punk rock and a little bit just plain gross

Super-Soak Me

Today (day 4 of my family summer road trip), we decided to spend the day at a water-park to cool our hot selves off. I'd only been to one water-park before (Raging Waters in San Dimas) and I remember it being very fun, so I was looking forward to spending the day at Soak City, a subsidiary of Knott's Berry Farm.

The park had just recently opened the Pacific Spin - a ride in which 2-4 people, on an inner-tube-type-of-flotation-device that is shaped like a Honey Comb cereal, are situated into a small wading pool at the top of a tower (in which said people have climbed about four flights of steps, carrying the giant Honey Comb) and, after being instructed by a 17 year-old O.C. kid, pushes off into a large, dark tube that is flowing with running cold water. The tube twists, spins and turns in complete darkness for a minute or so and then there is a sudden 20+ foot drop. Happy screams ensue while the tube is speedily dumped into the large end of a giant funnel-like contraption, complete with showers of running water in both directions. The Honey Comb then slides rapidly along the large curve of the funnel, and back again toward the original direction, continuing back and forth until the Honey Comb loses momentum and is coerced by the water into a small opening where riders are treated to one last splash via a waterfall raining down on their heads before they are finally dumped into the finishing pool and hurriedly ushered along by the no-longer-thrilled-with-their-jobs teen lifeguards.

Sounds like fun, huh?

That's what we thought, too. So J, K and I decided to make the Pacific Spin our first ride of the day. The line seemed to be on the short side for such a new thrill ride, but we'd gotten there just when the park opened, and we thought it an excellent place to start. The short-ish line turned out to be about 45 minutes long but, judging by the faces of those exiting the ride, as well as the screams of joy heard from nearly every rider, we figured it'd be worth it.

Now, here, I must digress for a moment.

Being something of a dork, I managed to pack my swimsuit top, but no bottoms/board shorts. I realized this by the time we arrived in Long Beach and figured it was no big deal, as I didn't think we had plans to swim and I was content going into the ocean in my cargo shorts and swimsuit top. But then we decided to go to a water-park and, since they're super particular about what one may and may not wear on their water slides, I thought it best to treat myself to a new pair of board shorts. Every other pair I own had been purchased at Target or the Gap and since I was in a major surfing Mecca (Huntington Beach), I thought I'd score some fine authentic surfer board shorts. After trying on a gazillion pairs that were rejected for various valid reasons, I found myself sporting a pair of Reef shorts sporting a green East-Asian inspired design. I loved them and didn't mind being $50 poorer in order to own them. Swimsuit dilemma solved, I was ready for the water-park.

Being somewhat organized, J decided to check the website for the Soak City prior to our departure for the park. In doing so, J noticed a warning about attire stating that swimwear may not have any metal or plastic accessory or be jeweled in any way. Crap. My bikini top had these metal dealies joining the strings and the top of the bra-ish part. We ruled out the bikini top and I just wore one of J's yoga tops with my board shorts.

So here we all are at the top of the Pacific Spin and it's finally our turn, after waiting about 45 minutes. We'd watched as the group before us, comprised of a dad and his two sons, and one of the sons had "illegal grommets" on his shorts back pocket. The ride operator said that the kid couldn't ride with the grommets on his pocket, so dad just rips the whole damn pocket off. Um, problem solved. J, K and I are frantically checking for anything that may prevent us from riding and J determines that a rubber tab on the edge of my pocket flap may not be ok and that I'll have to tuck it in. I do this and, convinced that we are ready to take the plunge on this fantabulous ride, I help plunk our Honey Comb into the wading pool and am asked by the ride attendant to spin around. I happily do so, convinced that I will pass this inspection with flying colors.

"Ma'am, I can't let you ride with those grommets on your back pocket," the tan ride attendant firmly tells me.

"Huh? Grommets? What grommets?" I ask her, as I turn my head in order to look at my left ass cheek, which holds the offending pocket. They're there alright, but we hadn't even seen them because they were the exact same color as the fabric. But eagle-eyes tan lifeguard chick saw 'em and busted me. She tells us that we can step aside and determine what we'd like to do. She offered me the options of: pulling them out or putting my swim trunks on inside-out. J suggested we just pull them out, as many before us had clearly done already, judging by the sprinkling of grommets on the ground at the top of the ride.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

J just looked at me.

"I just paid fifty bucks for these and they're nice shorts and I love them. I'm not about to rip them up just to ride a water-slide that will last all of 3 minutes."

"Well, what do you think we should do," J asks.

I tell her that she and K should go ahead without me and I'll go back down to the fitting room and look into the possibility of turning my shorts inside-out. I meet them at the bottom of the ride and both J and K accompany my to the changing room. J asks if I want her to turn her shorts inside-out in solidarity. It's an incredibly sweet gesture, but I'm not in the right space to appreciate it properly. There's no mirror in the changing room (which is probably just as well) and I feel utterly ridiculous. Oh well, I figure, it's still quite early in the day and I figure that by noon or so, at least 20% of those wearing board shorts will have them on inside-out. Sure, some folks will just tear the grommets out, some will choose to ride the few rides that don't hold this requirement (basically this rules out all of the tubes), and some others will choose inside-out, right?

Wrong.

Total number of parkgoers sporting inside-out board shorts (including me): 1

Total number of parkgoers sporting board shorts with ass pocket grommets and riding the fun rides (where said grommets are supposedly banned): 7+

Time I began seeking other inside-outers: approx. 10:35am

Time I began counting grommet rebels running free: approx. 2pm

Time we left Soak City: 3:05pm

Getting caught checking out the booties of the other park patrons (all ages, genders and races) in order to conduct this survey: priceless

Amount of fun I had, despite this wardrobe malfunction: lots

Funnest ride: Pacific Spin, natch

Greetings from supah-sunny Caul-eeee-fawrn-ya!!

Yep, I'm on another vacation. Nope, it's not fair, seeing as how I just took a mini-vaca only a mere three weeks ago. Deal with it, firefighter.

This time it is the family roadtrip down the coast of Oregon and all the way down to San Diego, with stops in the bay area, Long Beach and the Redwoods along the way. Internet connections are few and far between and, even though I brought le laptop along, I'm reporting from a borrowed machine currently.

Highlights, observations and oddities seen thus far include:

• a Toyota (yay! a palindrome!)-ish SUV pulling a trailer holding a(n) historical military cannon (circa Civil War, ours)...we photographed this as we passed it by, as the driver proudly beamed (dude, we were amused and mortified, not impressed, get over yourself)
• a senior-citizen biker gang, some avec bitches and some not (on Harleys, for reals)...this was far more impressive than the dude with the scary cannon
• waaaaay too much roadkill (quite the variety, though)
• stopping in a farmer's market/produce stand/store in Gilroy, CA (garlic capital of the world) and watching J bust a move to The Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited" to the shock and surprise of onlookers
• K, intending to join J and I across the street at the relative's home, walks into the wrong house (which, incidentally, was right next door to where she needed to be) and calls out a "hello?" to J and I (who are, of course, in the correct house) and, upon receiving no response, proceeds to walk through the home looking in the rooms and hoping to find us there...eventually, she realizes that she might be in the wrong house and comes next door
• conversation overheard in a boutique selling women's surf-inspired clothing:

Salesclerk: "What size is she?"

Grandma (to sales clerk): "She's pretty big."

Salesclerk: "So, like a 10 or a 12?"

Grandma (mortified): "No, she's an 8!!!"

Yes, I'm officially in Southern California, now. Where a size 8 is considered pretty big and the size of the brain appears to be irrelevant (please, no hate mail about how faboo SoCal is - I lived here for five years and I know that there are some folks here who are smart and not superficial and all that...I'm just talking about the prevailing idea of what = beautiful here and that it bugs me a little...I actually love a lot of things about this place - super-duper multicultural, great food and better year-round produce, the cultural arts and music options for those who love them, you can buy booze in the supermarket - I just HATE the whole beauty contest that nobody's gonna win that is so everpresent).

I'm neither super grande, nor am I tres petite, but I just hate the whole skinniest girl contest and all the icky judgment that goes along with it. There's nothing good that comes of it and it makes a lot of chicks feel crappy about themselves. That's no bueno, to be sure.

Today, after a late breakfast enjoyed while shouting out the answers to questions from Who Wants to be a Millionaire and The Price is Right, we went body boarding at Seal Beach and then hung out at Huntington Beach for awhile. The people-watching was fan-fucking-tastic.

More to come, on an as-able basis.

Out of Office Reply

I am out of the blogosphere until Monday, June 26, 2006 next week. If you have urgent matters that must be tended to, please email somebody and hopefully they will give a crap enough to email you back. Nobody will be blogging in my absence.

Thanks! Have a great weekend!

To go where many notable others have gone before...

So J and I just spent a lovely weekend in Napa having mud treatments, eating some really incredible food, soaking in a jumbo-sized bathtub and, er, drinking some wine. When we arrived in the quaint little town of Calistoga, where our almost-too-good-to-be-true bed and breakfast (The Meadowlark Inn) was located, we noticed signs for "California's Old Faithful," taunting us to come and see this wonder of nature.

This confused the hell out of me, since I'd always thought that Old Faithful was in Yellowstone National Park which is not in California -- or at least the last time I visited it wasn't. But, granted, that was many years ago. So, as I pulled the Chevy Impala that National rent-a-car was trusting me with for the weekend (boy, you know that life is grand when your rent-a-car isn't as nice as your real car!) into the parking lot of our home for the weekend on the edge of the Petrified Forest, J tells me that she really wants to go and see the geyser before we leave.

I could go either way on that one. I'm not exactly a Geyser Gazer (yes, there is such a thing -- I know two actual Geyser Gazers -- and, yes, it's exactly as it sounds), but I'm not opposed to checking them out if I happen to already be where a geyser sees fit to erupt.

On our final day, Sunday, we discuss over breakfast the things we want to be sure and do before heading back to the Oakland Airport to return home. There are two items at the top of our agenda that pertain to Calistoga: find a shot glass for Kira (the only one in Calistoga that we could find said Morro Bay on it...Morro Bay???) and visit the geyser.

After following a really lousy map (why do rental car companies always have such horrible maps? is it that difficult to dispense a good map?), we pull into a mostly empty parking lot guarded by an enormous American flag and set forth toward a small building where we are met with a sign informing us that many notable people have seen the wonder of nature that is the geyser before us.

Right on cue, J turns to me and says, "I'm not gonna pay to see this thing."

We walk through the doors and I'm instantly distracted by a sleepy white cat laying amongst the geological info and paraphernalia messily scattered about. As I'm petting the cat and getting suckered in by the ticky-tacky tourist trinkets, J is handing her credit card to a boy behind a cash register that sits in front of a sign informing us that adult admissions are $8.

EACH!!!

In all fairness to "California's Old Faithful," we did score a $1-off AAA discount. This is where I started to get a really bad feeling about this stop. In all fairness to the town of Calistoga, this gift shop did have shot glasses, but they were plain clear glass with little metal crest/shield-things with itty bitty writing and something about the geyser crookedly glued on. J made a comment about the odd assortment of items in the shop and we proceeded to head out the back door where the geyser was "scheduled" to erupt in approximately 15 minutes.

As we walked a rocky path toward the clearing that housed the wonder of nature, there was a small pen to our right containing a handful of "fainting goats," as indicated by a nearby sign. We emerged onto a clearing where a Bedrock-ish pond held murky water with steam rolling across the top and a gathering of larger stones in the center that coughed out a little spew of geyser gush after about five minutes.

To our right was what looked to be a dried-up well with what appeared to be several oxidized coins at the bottom and a sign (so many signs...) ordering us to keep out. Several green plastic lawn chairs were situated around the pond and about ten other suckers, I mean tourists, wandered the grounds with an eye on "California's Old Faithful." Video and still cameras were poised, ready to photograph at any given moment the wonder of nature that was about to shock and awe. Two teenage girls to the right were being silly and talking loudly, giggling intermittently, while two women near them shushed them as if we were in the public library. Did the women fear that if we aren't all super-quiet, Old Faithful might not be so faithful after all?

Ten minutes and three or four more spews of practice geyser gush later, we all watch as the geyser reaches maybe twenty-five yards. An eight-year-old boy to my left nearly nods off while J and I stifle laughter.

No ooooohs, no ahhhhhhs, and the only shock on anyone's face was the realization that they'd just paid $8 for something they can permanently recreate in their own front yard by spending $20 at Target. As we pulled the trusty Impala out of the parking lot and onto the nearby road, we noticed another sign: "Caution: Speeding Cars."

Yeah, speeding to get the hell out of this tourist trap, I thought.