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The Great American Road Trip

Jun 30, 2008 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

I would hate to see something so simple as blind corporate greed cripple a tradition as grand as the Great American Road Trip. But according to a survey by Mapquest, 72 percent say they’re scaling back summer road trip plans or ditching them altogether because of the unprecedented price of fuel. And that’s a shame, especially now. With housing prices in the tank (it’s not a gas tank, is it?), the presidential campaign love-fest in full swing, and the slim chance of the Giants making the playoffs...well, if ever we needed a road trip, it’s now. This piece wasn’t even going to be about the newly endangered road trip. It was going to discuss one of the most critical components of said trip…the tunes. But writing about rolling down the window and cranking up “Runnin’ down a Dream” seemed kind of, er, petty compared to what we’re facing now. But wait. Don’t start planning that “stay-cation” just yet. Maybe we just need a little inspiration. Maybe we just need a little Tao of Griswold. Think back to National Lampoon’s Vacation. Despite all the obstacles, Clark Griswold never slowed down (as, sadly, Aunt Edna’s dog could attest). Unscrupulous mechanics, Cousin Eddie, Christy Brinkley in that convertible – none of them stopped him from delivering his family to the glorious gates of Wally World. And when they got there and found it closed? He still found a way inside. Granted it took a pellet gun and an incompetent security guard (God bless John Candy!) but still, the point is, nothing deterred Clark. Do you think a little thing like gas prices would have? Not on your 1983 Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon it wouldn’t. We need that same kind of blind determination now. Folks, it’s not a road trip anymore. It’s more than that. It’s a necessary act of defiance. Who cares if the final fuel bill rivals one year’s college tuition…at Stanford. The road trip is an American birthright. What were 19th century immigrants if not the first tourists? The Oregon Trail was the first interstate. Calistoga wagons were the first SUVs. A more insensitive type might even suggest that the Donners were the first Griswolds…but I would never do that. Fact is, the road trip is our heritage and “are we there yet?” is the chorus of our anthem. Are we going to let some cigar smoking, pinky-ring wearing, triple-chinned oil executive take that away? It’s time that we look into our collective rear-view mirrors and in our most intimidating mom and dad voices, tell them all, “DON’T MAKE US TURN THIS CAR AROUND!” OK, sure, it may seem counter-intuitive to protest by, um, traveling long distances and paying exactly what those oil(y) men are charging us, but something as sensible as logic never deterred Clark. Why should it stop us? So let us summon our inner-Griswolds; get out the maps, stock up on snacks, load the kids in the car and hit the open road. And as we stop by the first gas station to fill up, find the right words to explain to the youngest why college might have to wait. Then save the Tom Petty, slip Jackson Browne’s “Runnin’ on Empty” into the CD player and hit the highway. Because somewhere beyond that horizon, our own personal Wally Worlds await, and it’s our duty to go. Just make sure you undo the dog’s leash from the back bumper first. Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1 KNCI.

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The Mickey Mouse Club

May 31, 2008 05:00PM ● By Super Admin

I am not a Disney-phile. I do not have Mickey Mouse decals on the back windows of our Tahoe. And I don’t own mouse ears (contrary to this month’s illustration). But, I love the place anyway. Growing up in soggy Olympia, Washington, Disneyland to me may as well have been Oz, and most of my grade school friends felt the same way. The sun and surf of southern California seemed a million miles from our lead-gray skies. Not many of our parents had the inclination (nor the money for that matter) to ever plan a trip there. All we knew of the “Happiest Place on Earth” was what we saw watching The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights. It was magical, though – a castle, rising majestically in a land where it never rains...? Oh, man. Which is why, if over summer vacation one of our classmates had gotten to go, the rest of us would crowd closely around him, for he had been to the Promise Land! With chins dangling near the frayed knees of our Toughskins, we listened as our elementary emissaries spoke in hushed, reverent tones of Pirates of the Caribbean, the Matterhorn and Submarine Voyage. We were awe-struck, dumbfounded and envious. We all asked, “Did you go to Space Mountain?”“Six times.” “No way!”“My sister threw up her corn dog!”And in unison we shot back with, “AWESOME!”For the rest of the school year, that kid could strut around the playground of South Bay Elementary like royalty. I still remember some of them – Robbie Campbell, who was shaving in fifth grade; Jeff Goobe, a kickball legend; Chris Pleasant, whose parents were rich; and Garrett Sailor, whose parents were not at all. Even Kit Sunsten, who had the unsavory reputation as a paste-eater, became cool overnight when he showed up from summer break wearing the coveted Mickey Mouse shirt.The first time that I went, I was 26. I was recently married and focused on being a true adult for the first time in my life. But the moment I set foot on Main Street USA, it was as though Tinker Bell took her wand and punk-slapped me back to the 1970s. The castle wasn’t quite as big as it seemed on TV, but it was still, you know, The Castle! And there was Adventureland, Frontierland and the Monorail! I went on the Matterhorn and kept my corn dog down, but the Teacups almost brought back it up. I knew enough to avoid a global-scale song suckering by taking a wide berth around Small World. Space Mountain was every bit as cool as Jeff Goobe said. And while somewhere in nearby Hollywood, a young Johnny Depp was taping the third season of “21 Jump Street,” I became smitten with Pirates of the Caribbean, which is still my favorite ride. The only bummer of the whole day was finding out that they don’t sell beer. Well, that and the Country Bears. I’ve been back with my family a few times since, even though by the time we leave, the ribs on my wallet are always showing. I mean, let’s be honest, Mickey pretty much attaches a big cartoon vacuum to your bank account from the moment you step off of the parking lot tram. Yet in spite of that, the park retains its sense of time-spared innocence. Maybe it’s because we want it to. Maybe it’s because we need it to. Or maybe it really is real. It doesn’t matter. All I know is, each time I’m lucky enough to go, I become that awe-struck kid again in the frayed Toughskin jeans, and the gray skies seem to be a million miles away. •Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1 KNCI.

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