Hi, welcome to the show. Let's go. Hope you don't mind, but the studio audience must sit in the back seat. Just climb in and don't squash the chips. And watch out for my camera and Donna's curlers and don't put your foot on the donuts, please. Okay, comfy? Great! Buckle up for safety. Buckle up. We're glad you could join us on our trip west. We're ready to ride. Everything's packed. The kitty chaperones are in the house. The car's been gassed and my boyish good looks have been freshly fluffed and tousled. No need to compliment me. And no touching. "May we please leave?" asked Donna, my bride of the ages and survivor of numerous patented Durrett vacations -- and spousal fluffings and touslings for that matter. She handles the excitement well. The teeth gnashing has mostly subsided. "You got it, my darling," I said, turning the motor key, then skillfully accelerating backwards up the driveway into the mailbox. "It's alright! It's alright! It's a rental car." I jumped out. I straightened the cedar post and balanced the mailbox precariously on top. I then took a moment to lovingly kick and stomp the tread-marked flower bed into a beauteous arrangement I called, "Springtime Nocturne." "Question," my wife said, as I slid my sinewy torso, all slinky and savage, back into the driver's seat. "Yes, my darling, mother to my cats, heroine scrambled eggs designer?" I responded, underplaying my admiration. "Are the chaperones for the kitties," she said, "or are the kitties chaperoning Connie and Lester?" "Oh, ha-ha, my darling, a little of both I suspect." I turned around and talked directly to the audience in the back seat. "Connie and Lester are my identical clones, who begged me to come on this trip, but I put my foot down -- much as you have done on my donuts. It's best we spend this time apart. It's tough love. Que sera, sera. And don't even think about singing that song. You are seated in a No Show Tunes Section. Now, pardon me, I must return to the scene in progress." I flipped back around. "Tough love?" Donna interjected. "You didn't want your clones to come so you don't have to be reminded how you look first thing in the morning -- in triplicate." "Uh! Uhhh!" I ad-libbed off the top of my head. I have total mastery of the language. "It's their silly games I hate. You know how they climb into bed and try to convince you that I'm not me." "Mike, that never works," she said. You've got something they don't." "Well maybe Connie --" "You've got something that sets you apart." "Really, my darling?" I said, my voice lowering to under the car. "You've got..." I looked into her eyes, anticipation fueled my beaming smirk. "High hopes! ... " "Oh, God," I gasped, deflated. She was singing. " ... HI-I-I-GH HOPES!" There was not much I could do. She was sitting in a Show Tunes Section. I threw the car into gear. "Grand Canyon here we come."
Four minutes later, I parked the car and turned off the engine. "Here we are!" "This isn't the Grand Canyon!" Donna cried. "It's Wal-Mart!" "Yes, my darling. It's Sunday at Wal-Mart," I cooed, allowing the syllables to roll enticingly off my tongue for the full effect. "Oh, great. Waddling Clueless Day. I forgot." Since the first store opened in our area, we've purchased thousands of dollars in merchandise and fabulous parting gifts at Wal-Mart. I have no complaint with Wal-mart. I like Wal-Mart. Good bargains, and there's no chance of running into Penny Marshall or Rosie O'Donnell. I like that. Nevertheless, maybe a year ago, I made a significant sociological discovery. The clientele in these stores changes dramatically on the Sabbath. They come from places unknown, zombie-like, escapees from a George Romero horror. They waddle into the store, grab all the shopping carts and start blocking the aisles. Without exception, they sport the Waddling Clueless uniform (massively undersized t-shirts) and the cult jewelry (whiny, grape jelly-smeared rug-rats clutching infinite circumferential parental thighs). Apparently they make a day of it, gridlocking shopper traffic, as they stare aimlessly at the shelves, seeking elusive canned meats, spackling, and Camels. "Did you find the camcorder cleaner you need?" Donna questioned, as we stood trapped in Balloons and Party Favors. I said, "No, my --" I was suddenly rear-ended by a shopping cart. "-- DARLIN'!" A six-foot-tall pair of bushy sideburns turned and pointed my direction. They spoke. A man's voice, not particularly happy, was heard, slow, deliberate, "Wanna step outside?" "Yes! Yes! We do!" chirped my wife, who saw our ticket out of the jammed store. The next I knew, the sideburns produced a large hand which singled out my neck and lifted me high into the air. My ears popped and I got a nose bleed. The sideburns cleared a path through the swarming Clueless, Wandering, and ejected me onto the front sidewalk near the Garden Shop. I apologized profusely. I felt the sideburns sizing me up. I could hear muscles bulging. "I'm so sorry, but I was talking to her," I said, pointing to Donna, who beelined for the car to turn on the air conditioner for the audience. "I wuz gittin' me Velveeter," said the sideburns. "Oooo, fine choice. Cheese of the Gods, and the toothless chaps from 'Deliverance,'" I offered, desperately attempting to ingratiate myself into his inner -- uh, um -- sideburns. "Really, I didn't call you 'Darlin'. I wuz a-callin' mah lady, mah woman, mah wrasslin' corner baby doll, 'Darlin'." "Whut?" Mr. Sideburns took a long pause. "Darlin'?" Mr. Sideburns took a long pause. "Sorry. Thought you called me 'Darwin.'" And with that, the sideburns said, "Chow. Me git Velveeter," and waddled off, clueless, into a rake display, repeatedly. I ran back to the car, hearing "THWOPP," "Ouch!" "THWOPP," "Ouch!" from behind me, repeatedly. We pulled out of Discount City, as it is known, north of Atlanta, and got busy traveling. When we stopped 611 miles later to curl up for the night, we had visited Clueless celebrations at two additional Wal-Mart stores. Realizing I was on vacation, I decided to do more than gawk. I took part. In Jackson, Tennessee, even I hummed show tunes (from "Les Miserables"), as I constructed an intricate pyramid of shopping carts, and successfully barricaded Aisle 11: Maalox, Lip Lube, Pastel Tums. To insure no one tried to pass through, I flirted aloud and bear-pawed a cardboard Cindy Crawford cut-out, stopping to ask all comers, "Where's the swim soup? I need me a swim soup." And, later, by the time we left the Conway, Arkansas, location, I demonstratively passed Unsynchronized Waddling. -- Highest Honor! It was a full day. I snuggled into the motel bed, happy for our safe journey and the glorious nature spectacles to come. I said a little prayer, "Velveeter." I meant, "Amen." • Episode 1: On the Road • Episode 2: Page 1: On the Road to on the Road • Episode 2: Page 2: On the Road to on the Road • Episode 3: On the Road to Discount City • Episode 4: On the Road: From Rush, ah, With Love • Episode 5: Page 1: On the Road: Get on With It! • Episode 5: Page 2: On the Road: Get on With It! • Episode 5: Page 3: On the Road: Get on With It! • Episode 6: Page 1: Rear and Moaning in the Grand Canyon • Episode 6: Page 2: Rear and Moaning in the Grand Canyon • Episode 6: Page 3: Rear and Moaning in the Grand Canyon About Your Guide: Mike Durrett says of life on the road, "All motel rooms are not created equal. We learned quickly, by week two, discounts for used ice, tub drain hair trappings 'to go' boxes, and a 'Free Incontinental Breakfast' are not necessarily good values." Grand Canyon photo ©1998 by Donna Durrett Grand Canyon sunset photo ©1998 by Stan Malone All rights reserved. |
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Will Donna and Mike ever arrive at the Grand Canyon? Well, duh. Here's a
picture of the kids, just a few days down the road, from the south rim at sunset. Taking a
secret ballot poll amongst themselves, they decided this view was better than free HBO in
the room. ("Batman & Robin" again?)
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