If you've ever wondered where all those Canadian drivers are going, the answer is:
Hell, if they don't change their ways.
And the other answer is: Old Orchard Beach.
I recently studied the appeal of the OOB experience by taking my family down there. I was determined to capture every detail of the experience in my column so I could write off all the expenses.
Day 1: We arrived at Wild Acres Majestic Corporate Resort Campground of Relaxing Bliss and managed, by requesting no water or electricity, to get one of the few camp sites actually surrounded by trees.
Pitching the tent took several hours. We had stopped at L.L. Bean, where my wife found a massive "Eureka Copper Canyon" that had accidentally been mispriced $100 in our favor. She lugged it around for 45 minutes while I made my way through the maze of parking lots. When I finally got there, I told her we didn't need a tent that gargantuan, even if it did have an upstairs apartment that we could rent out.
In matters of shopping, I don't often get my way. It was probably best that we had the extra space, anyway, because we tend to over-pack, and by "over-pack," I mean we could have roto-tilled part of our campsite in case we felt the sudden urge to plant a garden.
Day 2: A day at the beach, re-applying SPF-60 sunscreen every 15 minutes and wondering why everyone except me was hairless from the neck down, was just what the doctor ordered after listening all night to slamming doors and the repetitive bass rhythm of French techno music from somewhere on the other side of the campground. Campground Etiquette Rule Number One: Everyone wants to hear your fabulous collection of music. "Quiet Hours" begin at 11 p.m., so feel free to be as obnoxious as possible the rest of the time.
Day 3: Our four-year-old daughter and her new friend ran around naked for a few minutes while adults attempted to coax them into bathing suits and clean up from breakfast at the same time. A campground worker came by on his little golf cart and told us this was not acceptable. Moments later, at the campground pool, dozens of sexually mature humanoids, including plenty of young teenagers (and one old lady who looked like a bronzed Jabba-the-Hut) strutted around in less clothing than it would take to cover the genitals of a dragonfly. Where were the decency police then? Hm?
Day 4: We visited the downtown shops. From about 1 p.m. to 2:30 p.m., my wife spent 11 hours trying on bathing suits, asking me which ones were most flattering while I rolled my eyes and stared at my watch. I kept telling her that I was biased toward any suit that revealed more of her yummy curvaceous body, so maybe she should ask somebody else, but she is a stubborn woman, and was having none of it. Later, I set out to find the perfect pair of swim trunks that would make me look like one of those young, muscular surfers we saw down by the pier. This took me about five minutes.
Day 5: Does a HealthGard (TM) paper toilet seat cover really offer any significant protection in a campground toilet stall with slimy floors and hundreds of repressed sexual desires carved into the toilet paper dispenser?
If only we had packed our own composting toilet like my wife suggested.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Letter to Aspiring NASCAR Driver
Dear Driver of the little sedan that passed me at 85 mph,
The phrase "behind the wheel" has always puzzled me.
As you sit in the driver's seat, I'm pretty sure the part of the steering wheel that faces you is its front. If you were sitting behind the wheel, you would be on the dashboard, blocking the view of the speedometer.
Perhaps that is what was happening in your car as you drove through Bangor on I-95 on a recent lazy, sunny afternoon.
Did fate bring us together? There I was, meandering along in the passing lane at 65 mph in a 55 mph zone (how dare I?), creeping up to go by a grandmotherly person in a Buick, when you careened up to the bumper of my pickup, close enough to count any microscopic scratches on the tail gate.
And there you patiently waited, for close to ten seconds, as we snaked through Maine's third-largest city. Then you started honking your horn, leading me to suspect there was some emergency. You were too close to my bumper for me to see your four-way flashers.
So I squeezed between two cars in the other lane and let you by. No flashers, but your passenger did signal me with your middle finger as you blew by so quickly that I couldn't even see what state your license plate represented.
Forgive me for not recognizing that the driver of a 1998 Saturn dictates the flow of heavy traffic, not the dozens of other cars comfortably cruising along at 60 to 65. How could I have not seen how important you were? Your authority as a motorist was obvious, in retrospect. You must be the kind of person the insurance companies hire to talk on the radio about how many discounts they get because they're such good drivers. The rest of us are just nose-picking Sunday-driving numbskulls who couldn't drive our way out of a paper bag.
True, my four-year-old daughter sat next to me in the truck, and I'd rather she not be traveling at unsafe speeds in any vehicle. But I also would rather she not see someone's middle finger, so I am guilty of subjecting her to your wrath. Why did I not allow your poor planning and apparent lateness for work to take precedence over her safety and innocence? O, the shame!
I nearly called the cops on your pretentious, spoiled, vomit-inducing, wart-covered stressball narcissistic ass, but I quickly realized this would put me on the cell phone while driving at law-breaking speed, and I might threaten your candidacy for Driver of the Year. I decided you were not worth it.
Look it's not like I've never done some stupid things behind -- er, in front of the wheel. Back in my wild youth, I hit 90 mph trying to get to Boston in time for a hockey game. But at least I did not blame the other drivers for the fact that I was hoping to cover 250 miles in under two hours. That was strictly my tomfoolery.
But if I had killed somebody's four-year-old, that would be inadequate consolation, to say the least.
But these things only happen to other people, right?
So forget I said anything.
The phrase "behind the wheel" has always puzzled me.
As you sit in the driver's seat, I'm pretty sure the part of the steering wheel that faces you is its front. If you were sitting behind the wheel, you would be on the dashboard, blocking the view of the speedometer.
Perhaps that is what was happening in your car as you drove through Bangor on I-95 on a recent lazy, sunny afternoon.
Did fate bring us together? There I was, meandering along in the passing lane at 65 mph in a 55 mph zone (how dare I?), creeping up to go by a grandmotherly person in a Buick, when you careened up to the bumper of my pickup, close enough to count any microscopic scratches on the tail gate.
And there you patiently waited, for close to ten seconds, as we snaked through Maine's third-largest city. Then you started honking your horn, leading me to suspect there was some emergency. You were too close to my bumper for me to see your four-way flashers.
So I squeezed between two cars in the other lane and let you by. No flashers, but your passenger did signal me with your middle finger as you blew by so quickly that I couldn't even see what state your license plate represented.
Forgive me for not recognizing that the driver of a 1998 Saturn dictates the flow of heavy traffic, not the dozens of other cars comfortably cruising along at 60 to 65. How could I have not seen how important you were? Your authority as a motorist was obvious, in retrospect. You must be the kind of person the insurance companies hire to talk on the radio about how many discounts they get because they're such good drivers. The rest of us are just nose-picking Sunday-driving numbskulls who couldn't drive our way out of a paper bag.
True, my four-year-old daughter sat next to me in the truck, and I'd rather she not be traveling at unsafe speeds in any vehicle. But I also would rather she not see someone's middle finger, so I am guilty of subjecting her to your wrath. Why did I not allow your poor planning and apparent lateness for work to take precedence over her safety and innocence? O, the shame!
I nearly called the cops on your pretentious, spoiled, vomit-inducing, wart-covered stressball narcissistic ass, but I quickly realized this would put me on the cell phone while driving at law-breaking speed, and I might threaten your candidacy for Driver of the Year. I decided you were not worth it.
Look it's not like I've never done some stupid things behind -- er, in front of the wheel. Back in my wild youth, I hit 90 mph trying to get to Boston in time for a hockey game. But at least I did not blame the other drivers for the fact that I was hoping to cover 250 miles in under two hours. That was strictly my tomfoolery.
But if I had killed somebody's four-year-old, that would be inadequate consolation, to say the least.
But these things only happen to other people, right?
So forget I said anything.
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