Wojo Goes Mobile

I was watching Barney Miller this morning, as is habit. And yes, I am aware it is no longer 1978. Whatever. My AM routine includes the local news, a cup of coffee, and an episode of the aforementioned sitcom featuring the antics of the men (and occasional women) of the 12th Precinct.

Thank you, Antenna TV, for your perpetual reruns of this great show.

Today’s episode made me laugh out loud. Wojo, Dietrich, and Yemana were marveling over “a phone without wires!” They thought it was the coolest thing ever, and couldn’t believe how advanced technology had become. Here they are, fawning over this thoroughly modern 20th-century engineering feat.

Wireless Phone

You think that’s something? Just wait, fellas.

And by the way, is this thing even real? Did such technology exist in the 70s? This is a regular ol’ telephone, minus the cord, with an antenna attached. And they were walking around the police station using it to make calls. According to my research (and by that I mean reading the “history of mobile phones” Wikipedia page), while the technology dates back to 1946, the first true handheld mobile phone was produced in 1973 and looked like the so-called “brick” we have all seen and laughed at in old photographs and movies. Hell, I was just joking about these primitive phones in my last post.

Martin Cooper showing off the first handheld mobile phone, released in 1973.
Martin Cooper showing off the first handheld mobile phone, released in 1973.

Which leads me to Conclusion A: Barney Miller took creative liberties with the whole “wireless phone” thing. Sure, they had existed for a few years by the time this episode originally aired, but I doubt anybody had ever actually seen one. And that leads inevitably to Conclusion B: Barney Miller was ahead of its time.

This got me thinking about other television shows that were ahead of their time, for one reason or another. These are not necessarily critically acclaimed shows that never found an audience (Pushing Daisies, Arrested Development) and may, in fact, have had long and successful runs – they just did things differently, or did them first. In addition to Barney Miller, which makes my list not just because of the futuristic look at mobile communications but also due to its forward-thinking, realistic depictions of homosexual relationships, I offer you the following (in no particular order).

  1. Star Trek. In 1968, this sci-fi classic boldly went where no man had before, at least on primetime television, and broke the color barrier by featuring an interracial kiss between Captain Kirk and Uhura. Despite occasional missteps (tribbles, anyone?), the franchise continues to live long and prosper.
  2. My So-Called Life. This short-lived drama became a cult classic and launched the careers of Claire Danes and Jared Leto. Though its main characters were high school students – nothing original there – their daily struggles with realistic hot-button social issues of the day were far more realistic than those experienced by their peers in the 90210 zip code who were more concerned with saving The Peach Pit.
  3. The Honeymooners. The Kramdens were the antithesis of all those other cheerful, well-dressed couples featured so prominently in the early days of television: they argued, they got into ill-advised schemes, and they were decidedly blue collar. All was not domestic bliss, but at the end of the day, you never doubted Ralph’s sincerity when he said to Alice, “baby, you’re the greatest.”
  4. Seinfeld. No other show spotlighted the flaws and idiosyncrasies of its main characters so perfectly. It succeeded in making a group of whiny, apathetic, self-absorbed New Yorkers likable, no small feat. Let’s not forget all the great catchphrases (yada-yada, spongeworthy, master of your domain). But the most compelling reason for being ahead of its time: in one episode, Elaine is dating a guy with the same name as a serial killer. She is flipping through Sports Illustrated and suggests he change his name to O.J. This episode aired seven months before Nicole Simpson was murdered.
  5. Lost. Love it or loathe it, odds are you talked about it (and those conversations inevitably contained the phrase “WTF?!”). This head-scratcher heaped layer upon layer of unresolved mystery upon you and the whole thing was a mishmash of unconventional plots that included time travel, flashbacks, flash-forwards, obscure references to 18th-century philosophers, and polar bears on desert islands. It never made much sense and the finale was infuriatingly dense, but it was completely original and strangely engrossing. Networks are still trying to come up with the next Lost, years after it went off the air.

That’s my list! What television shows would you consider groundbreaking or ahead of their time?



I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

We watched Reality Bites over the weekend, and it made me realize how much I miss the 90s.

If you’ve never seen this movie, first off: why not!? Reality Bites, much like Singles, is the quintessential 90s movie. It is an excellent snapshot into what life was like moments before the Internet changed everything, and perfectly defines a generation. My generation. Generation X.


The movie already feels dated, beginning with the cast. Winona Ryder? She shoplifted her way right out of the spotlight. Ethan Hawke? He’s chosen to write novels and take roles in critically acclaimed but little seen films. Janeane Garofalo? Her political activism scared away the big studios. Only Ben Stiller has had a “conventional” acting career, though judging by the trailers for Night At The Museum 27, he really should slow it down a bit.

There’s no point to any of this. It’s all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes.

The other things that date the movie are the things I love most about it, and miss the most about the 90s. There was both an innocence and a backlash against “selling out.” If you were an alternative rock musician and one of your songs started receiving radio airplay, you were shunned. I’m talking about you, Soul Asylum and Gin Blossoms. In the movie, Lelaina’s documentary is picked up by In Your Face (a thinly disguised MTV knockoff), and then corporatized to death, much to her horror. People felt that way back then. The creative soul of an artist was more valuable than any type of currency.

Your integrity mattered a hell of a lot more than a BMW.

old cell phone*304The year Reality Bites came out (1994) computers already existed, but were much simpler, mainly functioning as word processors or very heavy paper weights. Printing was of the dot matrix variety and took roughly twelve days per page. Email was a novelty. It wasn’t until the following year that the last restrictions on Internet traffic were removed and it went mainstream. Ben Stiller’s character owns a cellular phone in the movie, but it’s ridiculously large and impractical. People didn’t sit across from each other in restaurants holding a 4″ glowing screen in front of their faces. Instead, they had actual conversations. “Streaming” entailed wading through water.

I remember the first time I ever went online. I started chatting with somebody on the east coast, and thought that was the coolest thing ever. I remember telling my wife, “I’m talking to some girl in Pennsylvania RIGHT NOW. How cool is that?” Because the only words she heard were some girl she did not find it nearly as cool as I did. Go figure. It was innocent, though! I also recall buying my first mobile phone. This had to be 2003 or 2004, and the truth is, I didn’t know what the hell we were supposed to do with them. There was no texting then. I justified $80 a month to the wife by saying they’d be great to have in an emergency, but no emergency ever materialized. A few years and a couple of upgrades later, I got mad at the Sprint salesman because he was trying to sell me a phone with a camera.

Lelaina: Can you define “irony”?
Troy Dyer: It’s when the actual meaning is the complete opposite from the literal meaning.

“I have a camera,” I told him. “Why on earth would I want one on my phone?!”

Clearly, I was living in a pre-Instagram world. Turns out they didn’t have any phones that didn’t come with built-in cameras anyway, so I bit my tongue and made the purchase. And complained bitterly about it afterwards. Looking back on it now, I can only laugh at the absurdity of my reaction.

The first website ever.

I am not under any orders to make the world a better place.

Technology has improved my life in many ways, I cannot deny that. It has made me smarter, and definitely makes my job easier.

And yet, I still long for those days right before everything changed. For that Reality Bites world where idealistic quotes like “the only thing you have to be at age 23 is yourself” still rang true.

You Are What You Eat

Tonight, I’m planning on watching my favorite horror movie of all time.

Wouldn’t that make more sense around Halloween? you may be wondering. Hey, I love The Shining as much as the next person. The Exorcist is creepy. That damn doll in Annabelle is enough to give anybody nightmares. All are fine horror movies best viewed in October. But the movie that inspires abject terror in me takes place on Thanksgiving. Avert your eyes now if you are easily frightened. You might want to have any small children leave the room, lest they peek over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of this fright-inducing flick.


Don’t get me wrong. I love Peanuts. When I was a kid, I had comic book collections and a stuffed Snoopy doll and Charlie Brown sheets for my bed. Some of my fondest memories involve watching the holiday specials on TV every year. I even remember the Dolly Madison commercials that accompanied them. I have Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown Christmas album. “Linus & Lucy” is the default ringtone on my phone.


The Thanksgiving special terrifies me. And it’s all because of The Chair. The damn, evil chair.

Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Chair Fight

This otherwise harmless-looking canvas Adirondack chair is like the devil incarnate. You know how a lot of people were afraid to go swimming after watching Jaws? I was afraid to venture into the garage, because that’s where Snoopy liberates The Chair from – and havoc ensues. The two circle each other, fists clenched. Snarling is involved. They trade punches. And then, in one truly terrifying scene, The Chair appears to seriously maim our beagle hero. As a kid, I thought Snoopy had been killed, and burst into tears following this horrifyingly bloody turn of events.

Death by Adirondack

Nobody can survive an attack so vicious, right? Snoopy has clearly been squished flat, his canine body broken and battered. There will be no more dogfights with the Red Baron for him. Somebody else will win the prize for best Christmas light display this year. Woodstock is going to have to find himself a new best friend.

Fortunately, Snoopy survives the attack, and The Chair is finally corralled into submission. Franklin ends up sitting on it to eat his ice cream sundae, buttered toast, popcorn, pretzel sticks, and jelly beans. But this child’s psyche has already been scarred.

Franklin chairAnd then, the audience is lulled into a false sense of complacency. Amends have been made, Peppermint Patty has apologized to Chuck for being an ungrateful little brat, and they’re all headed to Charlie Brown’s grandma’s condominium for a real Thanksgiving dinner, joyfully crooning over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go!

The scene shifts back to Snoopy’s doghouse and we are subjected to an even more frightening scene as we observe Woodstock resorting to cannibalism.


Adding insult to injury, Woodstock battles Snoopy for the wishbone. And wins.

And you thought the Donner party were a bunch of animals.

Here are ten fun facts about the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special. Pay special attention to #4.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends! Try not to eat your fellow diners.

FOOls in the Rain

Some people claim that rock ‘n roll is dead. I disagree. Because yesterday morning, we stood in a line hundreds deep for Foo Fighters tickets. In the cold rain and wind. For three hours. For a concert that is ten months away.

We must really like you, Dave Grohl.

10559666_10205282078640433_419723977629634675_nThe Foo Fighters have long been one of my favorite bands. I saw them once before, in 2008, and that concert was one of the best I’ve been to. So when they announced a show in Portland next September – coincidentally, it’ll be on our second anniversary – I jumped at the chance to buy tickets.

And then I found out they were selling ‘em old school. A special pre-sale at the Rose Quarter box office was being held Saturday, from 10-2. Be there or be square, as the cool kids used to say. Otherwise, tickets were going up for sale on December 5th.

“We should totally get up super early on a weekend and stand in line for tickets in the pouring rain for hours!” Tara said.

Maybe those weren’t her exact words, but they’re what I heard. Nevertheless, this was the Foo Fighters we were talking about. There was a certain charm in lining up for tix like they used to do before the internet. I decided it might actually be fun!

Umm…do I look like I’m having “fun”?!


Yeah, it poured on us. But only for the first hour. And then the sun came out. But the wind negated any warming effect that big, bright object in the sky was having.

And then, just for fun, it started raining again.

Fortunately, we were surrounded by a bunch of interesting people, all united for a common cause. And more importantly, all soaking wet. The phrase “misery loves company” should not be understated. We were cold and wet, sure – but so were they. The line seemed everlong (see what I did there?), but we were making slow and steady forward progress. We even had some free entertainment to help us pass the time.


In the end, the rain and wind and cold didn’t matter because we ended up with really good seats for the Foo Fighters concert next September 14. We’ll be much closer to the stage than we would have been if we’d waited until December 5 to buy our tickets.

Our friends thought we were fools for standing in the rain for hours. I say it was well worth a little soaking to see Dave bring it to Portland next year!

What do you think? Would you wait in line for hours to buy tickets for your favorite band?

Grape Juice With a Kick

Tara and I met up with a friend to go wine tasting over the weekend. This was a new experience for us, and I gotta say, it made me feel like…


I like wine, but I’m hardly a connoisseur. Hell, it took me several tries just to spell the word connoisseur. And I’m a professional writer! The whole experience is rather intimidating if you’re a wine novice like me. The person pouring the wine is talking about “oakiness” and “tannins” and “a nice finish” and I’m thinking ooh, what a pretty shade of purple. 

And then there’s the tasting menu. How are you supposed to pluck out “notes of grapefruit and lavender with a butterscotch finish”? All I taste is grape juice with a kick.

I think I was thrown off by the town itself. When we made plans to go wine tasting, I was picturing stops like this…


Instead, we apparently wandered into that creepy town where the children of the corn resided.


That would be Carlton, Oregon. I’d never even heard of the place before Saturday. Is it any wonder? Apparently those who wander into town never leave. Was this my payback for flirting with a nun, I wondered?

Creepy signs aside, at least the wine tasting in Carlton was convenient. The main street looked like this: wine shop, wine shop, cafe, wine shop, wine shop, cafe, wine shop, jam shop, wine shop, wine shop. We got buzzed without walking more than half a block. And then after leaving town, we did stop at the nicer-looking winery pictured above. There, we got into a heated debate that did not involve pinot noir vs. syrah, but rather, Prince vs. Michael Jackson.

OK, maybe we were really buzzed at that point.

But I loudly contended that Prince was a far better music artist than the vastly overrated Gloved One. Our friend Chris, on the other hand, thought I had lost my marbles.

“Billie Jean!” she declared.
“Purple Rain!” I countered.
“Thriller. Zombies.”
“‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.'”
“Your guy changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol,” she said.
“Your guy dangled a baby over a ledge and bought the Elephant Man’s bones,” I responded.

We were both rallying the people tasting wine around us to our side. Chris got some random woman to agree with her, but then her husband sided with me. I think the whole thing ended in a draw, but c’mon…

…I’ll take Prince over Michael Jackson any day.

How ’bout you?


The Crosby Show Airs Again!

Last week, I reported on my run-in with the fake David Crosby outside the Keller Auditorium in Portland. I wondered who he was and why he enjoyed tricking people into believing he was a rock ‘n roll star, but figured that was pretty much the end of the story.

And then, while driving home from the Oregon coast on Sunday, I got a text from Audrey. My parents watched her while we celebrated our anniversary weekend, and took her to an Oktoberfest celebration in Portland. What Audrey texted caught our attention.

Your fake David Crosby is here. 

Wait. Seriously?! I didn’t really believe it was the same guy…until Audrey sent us the following photo.


Here’s mine, from five days earlier.

10660365_10202875049578081_4602986690754332541_nLest there’s any doubt, when Audrey approached him, she showed him this pic and asked if the man in the photograph with his arm around dear ol’ dad was him. He confirmed that yes, indeed, it was.

Like father, like daughter. What are the odds?

I wish she’d called him out on his fakery, but then again, she’s only 14 and should not be provoking a strange man. Teach your children well and all that jazz, right?  I’m just dying to unravel the mystery.

A comment on that post did help to shed a little light on the situation. A man named David (I’m assuming that’s his real name, although my track record with Davids isn’t the greatest these days) was at the Crosby, Stills & Nash show last week, and had his own run-in with the un-Crosby. He wrote,

My wife (saw) him from 50 feet away when we were parking and yells “that’s David Crosby” and he waved. About 5 minutes later as we walked over all excited that he was still there I knew it was not THE David Crosby but a very close second. We talked to him for a few minutes when the REAL David Crosby came out of the back door of the Keller Auditorium 15 feet away from us and walked into his bus.
We did talk to the look-a-like for almost a 1/2 hour and watched the excitement he caused with people thinking he was the “real thing”. Very pleasant fellow that said he has been mistaken for Crosby for a very long time…several people came up to me after they seen me talking to the look-a-like and asked if it was really him and I told them politely that it was not. Some of these people did not believe me and I told them to just ask him……he was honest. Some of these people thought I was his body guard. Take a picture anyhow…….what would it hurt.

Interesting! It appears that Fake Crosby relishes the attention and doesn’t go out of his way to tell people he isn’t the real deal…but won’t continue the charade if asked point blank.

I don’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, we’re the ones who assumed he was genuine, and you know how that equation goes: ass, u, me. On the other hand, he was signing CSNY albums.

Tsk, tsk.

Kind of Hard to Beat Brinner

Last night, we had brinner.

I don’t know about you, but there’s something especially exciting about having breakfast-for-dinner. It feels forbidden. Rebellious. Naughty, even. I couldn’t help but think to hell with convention as I bit into a sweet, chewy pumpkin waffle drizzled with maple syrup last night. By the time I speared the accompanying sausage links with my fork, I was waving my fist in the air and shouting, “Damn The Man!” Sure, Tara and Audrey looked at me peculiarly, but I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

You know what I’m talking about, Christopher Turk!

So, how about you? Do you ever indulge in brinner? Does it feel like you’re breaking the law when you do? And what’s your favorite brinner meal – Poached eggs? Oatmeal? Pancakes? A frittata?  Do share.

Will the Real David Crosby Please Stand Up?

Last night, we saw Crosby, Stills & Nash at the Keller Auditorium in Portland. Some of our Facebook friends were surprised to learn that David Crosby is not dead. Truth is, he’s alive and well. And for one blissfully ignorant half-hour, we thought we had met this rock ‘n roll legend.

We had time to kill before the concert, so we were strolling around the auditorium. A couple of tour buses were parked in back and standing next to them, just minding his own business and leaning against a railing, was a very distinct looking man who was bald on top with a shaggy mane of white hair cascading down the sides and a big, bushy mustache.

“Holy shit!” we said. “It’s David Crosby!”

We don’t generally like to bother famous people, but he was introducing himself to his fans, posing for pictures, and chatting away. So we approached and shook his hand.

“I’m a big fan!” I announced.

Tara was wearing a t-shirt from our Tom Petty concert last month. “Tom Petty,” David Crosby snorted. “He sings through his nose!”

“We’re much more excited to see your show,” Tara said, stretching the truth a little but more than happy to butter the guy up. After all, it was David freakin’ Crosby. He played Woodstock, man.

“We hate to bother you, but could we pose for a picture?” we asked.

David Crosby was happy to oblige. He put his arm around me (OMG!), smiled, and joked about how “we go way back.” It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.


We thanked him for his time and walked away, immediately posting this picture to Facebook and Instagram. For the next thirty minutes, we could not believe our good fortune. It’s not every day you shake hands with a rock ‘n roll pioneer.

And then, Tara had to go and pull out her phone.

She clicked on a hashtag I had posted – #csny – and pulled up a whole bunch of photos of Crosby, Stills & Nash. Recent ones.

“Umm, that was not David Crosby,” she said.

“What are you talking about?!” I replied. “That was totally David Crosby.”

Only, she was right. The man we met was most definitely not David Crosby. THIS is David Crosby:

davidcrosby110613wWell, shit. In seconds I had gone from shooting the breeze with a rock ‘n roll legend to shaking hands with a weird, fat, sweaty Portland guy who put his arm around me.


Yeah, he fooled us. The resemblance was pretty remarkable (though in looking at recent photos, not quite so much as we initially believed). At least we weren’t the only ones bamboozled by this weirdo. People were chatting him up left and right and taking pictures with the guy. One poor schmuck had him sign a CSNY record album he was toting around. Now, that would piss me off.

In retrospect, it did seem odd that David Crosby was just hanging around outside the auditorium 45 minutes before a show without a care in the world, taking the time to chat up everybody who happened to wander by.

That guy’s a real jackass, whoever he is. I’d almost rather have remained in the dark because boy, were my friends awed and impressed by this picture. For a few brief moments, I felt like a hero to them. But then Tara posted that he was in fact not the real deal, and the Crosby was out of the bag.

Oh, well. We did get to see the real David Crosby, at least. From the third row of the second balcony, but whatever. CSN put on a great show. The vocal harmonies may have diminished some from their heyday in the late 60s and 70s, but when they gelled, they were on. “Cathedral” was downright rockin’, “Guinnevere” gave me shivers, and the combination of “Helplessly Hoping” and “Our House” was executed flawlessly. Three hours had passed by the time they came out for a final encore, “Teach Your Children.” We got home really late for a work night, but it was totally worth it.

There's the real David Crosby: that tiny white-haired speck on the right.
There’s the real David Crosby: that tiny white-haired speck on the right.


It’s the Singer, Not the Song

Earlier this week, I was saddened to learn that Jimi Jamison had passed away.

Jimi was the lead singer of Survivor, one of my favorite bands from the 80s. When most people hear this, their reaction is, I love “Eye of the Tiger”! I love “Eye of the Tiger,” too. It’s long been my personal anthem through rough times. But Jimi did not sing “Eye of the Tiger.” He joined the band after that song was released, when Dave Bickler, their original lead singer, developed vocal polyps and was forced to quit the band.Vital+Signs

Well take a message from the man
Who’s not afraid to come on strong
When there’s magic in the music
It’s the singer not the song

Still, the Jamison-led version of Survivor found success with the release of 1984’s Vital Signs, an album that includes the hit songs “I Can’t Hold Back,” “The Search is Over,” and “High On You.” I still have the original vinyl LP I purchased that year, and consider it one of my favorite albums ever.

Whenever I listen to Vital Signs, I am transported back to a bitterly cold Saturday afternoon in the winter of 1984-85. I was fifteen, and living on Ellsworth AFB, South Dakota. I don’t remember the month…probably December or January. All I know is, the sky was overcast, the wind was blowing across the prairie with a fierceness any resident of the northern plains is familiar with, and the temperature hovered around zero. I piled onto a school bus with a ragtag group of kids my age for a weekend field trip to a pristine lake in the Black Hills to try my hand at ice fishing. It sounded like a fun way to pass a few hours, but in reality, it sucked. I have never been so cold in my entire life. The wind blowing across the frozen, exposed lake made the temperature feel like -20°F. A heavy winter coat and a makeshift shelter on the ice did nothing to ward off the intense chill. I was completely miserable the whole time, and of course, we didn’t catch a damn thing. Either the fish were too smart to leave their hiding places, or frozen solid. I did learn one important lesson that day: ice fishing was not for me. I never did it again.

When it’s comin’ from the heart
All the people sing along
It’s the man behind the music
It’s the singer not the song

Thawing out back on the bus, I slipped on my headphones and pressed PLAY on my Walkman. The cassette I was listening to? Survivor’s Vital Signs. As the bus wound its way through the otherwise-lovely Black Hills, Jimi Jamison’s voice filled my head. This is the rare album where every song is good – so good, in fact, that decades later when Tara and I first started dating, I declared in a Facebook post how “I Can’t Hold Back” perfectly summed up my burgeoning feelings for her. But it’s not just the hit songs I like. “Broken Promises,” “Popular Girl,” “Everlasting Love” – all feature catchy melodies and monumental choruses. Those songs made me a Jimi Jamison fan for life.

RIP Jimi Jamison. (Courtesy of staugustine.com).
RIP Jimi Jamison. (Courtesy of staugustine.com).

Which is why his death hit me hard. Survivor had just performed a concert in Morgan Hill, CA Saturday night. Sunday, Jimi suffered a heart attack and passed away at the age of 63. By all accounts, he was a friendly and generous man who always went out of his way to please his fans, chatting with them after shows and happily signing autographs. Too many celebrities act like celebrities. Jimi, in comparison, never let the fame go to his head. He will be missed.

Survivor may never have achieved the huge mainstream success I feel they deserved, but in my eyes, they are bigger than life.

RIP, Jimi.

I’d Rather See Balki

Have you heard that Full House revival might be in the works?

Also: why?

Don’t call me a hater, but I’m really not interested in seeing Jesse & The Rippers twenty years later. And if the last thing Dave Coulier ever did publicly was stomp on Alanis Morissette’s heart (inspiring her revenge anthem “You Oughtta Know” in the process), I could live with that. I simply have no desire to revisit the Tanner clan, especially when so many other deserving sitcoms languish in the television graveyard.

If you’re going to revive anything, how about Seinfeld? Jerry and the gang never got a proper sendoff, anyway. I’d love to see what schemes Kramer would come up with a decade and a half into the 21st century. Besides, we could use some fresh new catchphrases. Think of all the great contributions Seinfeld made to the English language! Spongeworthy. Yadda yadda. “Master of my domain.” Low talkers. Close talkers. Festivus. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” I don’t think there’s ever been a show so consistently fresh and funny. I’d love more Jerry!

I’d also be down for a Friends revival, even if the only characters returning were Joey and Chandler. They could do a lot with 22 minutes every week. While we’re at it, let’s bring back Cheers. Or Family Ties. Or Charles In Charge.

Just kidding about that last one. Although…

Hell, even Perfect Strangers is more deserving of a second shot, in my opinion. There’s no such thing as too much Balki.

I kinda miss this guy.
I kinda miss this guy.

So, we leave this evening for Nevada. I’ve been prepping Audrey in advance by giving her some tips on how to fit in. Like, for instance, she has to call a creek a “crick” and the glove compartment is actually a “jockey box.” And scones as we know them here are nothing like the scones out there (or the scones in jolly ol’ England, either). She has spent an inordinate amount of time figuring out how swaggy to look. I had to break it to her that Nevadans don’t give much thought to swag…at least not those in the part of the state we’ll be visiting. Ahh, teenagers.

Yesterday I was packing, and realized I’ve really got it down to a science after so much traveling these past few years. At one point, I even found myself piling up clothes in the order in which they will be worn.

“Hey, Audrey!” I called. “Do you pack your clothes in order?”

“Are you kidding?” she responded. “I’ve got two pages of notes with detailed information on what I will be wearing, and when.”

I didn’t believe her, but…


She even listed items that were currently in the washing machine as she was compiling her notes. And she’s got outfits broken down by day and night. I’m beginning to think my daughter might be a little bit OCD.

Tonight, we’ll hit Baker City, Oregon. And then tomorrow it’s on to Ely.

Bon voyage!