BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

As promised, I am throwing together a few blogs about our adventures on vacation. Please make note that they won’t necessarily be in chronological order as far as the vacation itself went. They are actually in “transcribed jotted down note order,” which makes sense to me, but not really everyone else. At any rate, this is number four in the series…

In the movie Die Hard, John McClane (Bruce Willis) takes one look at the utter lunacy in the baggage claim area of LAX and with a resigned confusion, exclaims, “California…” (see the scene HERE)

This pretty much sets the tone for McClane’s view of the 31st state, that being that folks on the left coast aren’t right in the head. Obviously, having seen Die Hard more times than I can count, I’ve noticed this “bit” before. I’ve just never really taken it to heart. Then I went on vacation…

No, not to California. I’m not exactly sure they will let me into the state, to be honest, and after this blog post I think my chances will be even more slim.

You see, as you will recall, in Part Two of the Vacation Chronicles, Neither Does Murv… I mentioned the Horn Honkers. As it happens, the Horn Honkers were from California – Or, that’s what it said on their license plates, anyway, and their car definitely did NOT look like a rental.

Our first encounter with the Horn Honkers – the first one that sticks out in our minds, at least – occurred while we were waiting around on the side of the road for a glimpse of “das cinnamon bayer.” We had been waiting there for all of five minutes, maybe even less. With cameras and binoculars poised, we scanned the treeline below, searching for something big, furry, and wearing no pants – just a t-shirt and carrying a jar of honey.

However, before we had a chance to locate said creature, the roar of a car engine came from above. We turned to see the fancymobile, tagged with California plates, speeding around the curve – way too fast, I might add – then accelerating and racing toward us even way too faster. Dangerous kind of fast. At about 100 yards out, the horn began to blare.

A scant moment later the California Fancymobile slid to a halt on the turnout between our vehicle and someone who was parked up ahead of us. We all abandoned our quest for “cinnamon Pooh bayer.” Why? Well, initially we thought it was because someone was in distress and needed help immediately. We perceived that there must be some sort of emergency. After all, they had come down a narrow, “switchbacking” mountain road at a dangerous speed, blaring their horn. What else were we to think?

Seems, however, that we had misinterpreted their situation. Apparently we not only didn’t speak German (See Neither Does Murv…) we also didn’t speak California. The reason they were speeding down the mountain at a dangerous rate is that… Well… we still aren’t sure about that. The horn, though, we did figure out. Fact is, they did want to get our attention, but it was just so that we would “get the f*ck out of their way” because they were from California. We figured that out because before the car had even stopped skidding to a halt, their doors were open and they were jumping out, cameras in hand. Like cockroaches startled by a light, they proceeded to scurry back and forth, running between us, pointing their cameras – sometimes without even looking at what they were pointing them at – then snapping pictures. Thirty-seven point four seconds later, they were back in the California Fancymobile and slinging gravel as they literally peeled out of the turnout and sped off.

We all stood there dumbfounded for a moment, then wandered back to the Jeep and climbed in. We knew better than to believe Pooh would be hanging around after that little display…

And that would be the end of the story if it weren’t for the fact that for the rest of the day we played leapfrog with the F*ckin’ Californians. Well, it wasn’t so much leapfrog as just us meandering into their way, I guess.

Seriously.

We would be standing there admiring the view, waiting for wildlife, eating a sammich, taking a leak, whatever… Suddenly, out of nowhere the California Fancymobile would roar into view and come screeching into whatever parking area we were inhabiting. They didn’t always use their horn, but every single time, without fail, the two bald surfer dudes would jump out of the car, scurry around like they were running late for an appointment with an expensive hooker, and snap random pictures in a half-assed fashion.

But who am I to complain? Odds are they “saw” wayyyyyy more of Wyoming than we did. Still, all of our pictures were in focus. Not so sure about theirs…

More to come…

Murv

As promised, I am throwing together a few blogs about our adventures on vacation. Please make note that they won’t necessarily be in chronological order as far as the vacation itself went. They are actually in “transcribed jotted down note order,” which makes sense to me, but not really everyone else. At any rate, this is number two in the series…

You just can’t trust anyone these days… Not even family. Seriously. They will rat you out on something in a New York Minute. Which begs the question, what exactly is a New York Minute? Is it slower or faster than a regular minute? If so do they have to sell special watches and clocks in New York? If it’s faster, is that why they have the New Years celebration there, so they can get it over with quicker? Do you have “time lag” if you go to New York then return to the temporal dimension that governs everyone else?

Could make you crazy just thinking about it, ya’know?

Anywho, back to the ratting out thing.

Gratuitious "Tourist Snapshot" of walkway atop Signal Mountain

After our Snake River Adventure with Philosopher Steve (which is on my schedule to blog about) we took his advice and went up to the top of Signal Mountain. Great view, but why is it called Signal Mountain? Well… I don’t know quite how it originally got its name, but there does happen to be a rather large cell tower on top of it, and you can definitely get signal there.

However… After going up a mountain there’s very little left to do other than go back down, which eventually, we did. On the way we kept on the lookout for wildlife so that we could go “Ooh, Ahh, never seen one of those…” and then take pictures like typical tourists. In point of fact, my Brother-in-Law was on a mission to take pictures of a Bear (or three, or four, or five…) He had come to Wyoming, as he said, “Loaded for Bear”… Judging from some of the lenses he was packing, I certainly couldn’t dispute that.

And so, as we traveled down the mountain, watching out the windows, we eventually came upon some wildlife. This particular wildlife took the form of a small clutch of German tourists. They were stopped along the side of the road snapping pictures, so we pulled up slowly so as to not spook whatever it was that happened to be the subject of the picture taking. This is when we discovered they were German. By this I mean, one of them stood there nodding her head and smiling at us, while a couple of the others kept saying to us, “Ja… Ja… Das Cinnamon Bayer…”

The other few behind them were also nodding and saying, “Ja… Ja…”

It was sort of sad. Not them. I mean us. Why? Because none of us could speak German. Well… THEY could, but we couldn’t…

From lookout at end of walkway: Jackson Lake with Grand Tetons

Either way, we parked, climbed out, and milled around waiting to see if we could get a picture of “Smokey the Bear.” Unfortunately, if Cinnamon (Nutmeg, Turmeric, Ginger, or even Mary Ann) bears were in the vicinity we never got to see them. Why? Because of the horn honkers. But we’ll talk about them in a different blog. Right now we need to talk about me being ratted out.

And so… Due to the horn honkers we climbed back into the rental Jeep and started back down the mountain. We hadn’t traveled more than 200 yards when the seatbelt chime began to ding, dong, squeal, and otherwise demand we pay attention to it.

E K, who was in charge of driving (as we’ve already established, what with her control issues and all) said, “All right. Who doesn’t have their seatbelt on?”

Our Sister-in-Law replied, “It’s John.”

John, being my Brother-in-Law you understand, announces, “Neither does Murv!”

Guess which one of us got smacked by the redhead…

Okay, guess I should wrap it up for this installment… Gotta go get the stitches taken out in a bit…

More to come…

Murv