The Democrats have already begun their ad campaigns, most of which mention something about restoring hope or keeping hope alive or similar nonsense. Back in early August, a pro-Obama Internet ad popped across the top of a web page I was surfing. “Re-elect Obama,” it promised, “and keep restoring change across America!” I’ve had enough of his change, thank you, as most of it was unwanted and poorly implemented. His only true talents seem to be making speeches—he’s adept at the art of vague statements—and accusing Republicans and Tea Partiers when something goes wrong. Furthermore, who decided a banner ad that inexplicably evades ad-blocker plug-ins was the best way to promote a re-election campaign? Why would I admire anyone whose publicity department has posted obnoxious online banner ads?

At least the Dems have someone to champion. While the donkey’s spin machine attempts to brainwash Americans to forget everything the Democrats destroyed when they controlled Congress, the Republicans are too busy flipping through their Rolodex of Old People to start any legitimate campaign. Who exactly is the Republican front-runner? Is it Mitt Romney, the guy who bankrupted his state with government-financed healthcare? I personally like Herman Cain, but his prospect of nomination is slim; gun-totin’ Joe and his overdressed wife Sue from Alabama aren’t going to vote a black man into the Presidential office, even if he opposes abortion and wants to ship every homosexual in America to a tropical island. (Which, incidentally, he doesn’t; and wouldn’t they just create some sort of resort?) Poor Michele Bachmann doesn’t stand a chance for the same reason Sarah Palin didn’t: she is an intelligent, moderately attractive female, and the media will destroy her. The women are also both extremely conservative, to the point of being scary.

As we prepare for the primaries, debates, commentaries, and Saturday Night Live sketches that will inundate prime-time television over the next twelve months, perhaps we should review lessons learned from the previous election.

1. One man cannot bring happiness to the masses unless his name is Jesus or Willie Wonka.

2. The mainstream national media played us for fools. They decided whom they wanted to win and reported only good things about him. Thus, while allegedly objective news anchors worshiped everything Obama did, the only news about Sarah Palin was when she bought clothes or spoke with a funny accent. No one in the mainstream press analyzed Obama’s policies, questionable acquaintances, or vague statements. Network-television news anchors were too busy squealing and peeing in their seats every time he spoke.

3. Quick reminder: John McCain, who was not a crackpot, ran against President Obama. Sarah Palin was only the Vice-Presidential candidate, and Joe Biden is nuttier than she is.

4. Over the last four years, Fox News has graduated from the sidelines to a mainstream news source—for better or for worse. At least nearly all its female anchors are hot. Almost. Sorry, Greta.

5. Saturday Night Live got lucky with a few sketches, but the show isn’t any funnier than it was before the election. How much do those people get paid for producing sophomoric, boring entertainment? Even the live audience barely laughs.

6. Actors and actresses aren’t political authorities for anyone except people who like being told what to think.

Regardless of which side of the aisle you prefer, or whether you’d rather throw boxes of tea into Boston Harbor, try keeping your own political discussions intelligent and friendly. Some of my friends are elephants, some are donkeys, and some are mutants, but we don’t let political persuasions destroy our fun. We American citizens we need to remain calm and well balanced, because let’s face it: nobody in Washington is good at that.

©2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

Our fictional university could be one of many, because regardless of whether those students are officially Colonels, Ragin’ Cajuns, or nuns training in a convent, they live in Louisiana and are therefore LSU Tiger fanatics. Tiger fever is one of the many requirements for living in our state; it falls somewhere between clogged arteries and not finishing one’s words when speaking. Not cheering for LSU would be like not eating king cake. You just can’t live like that. In football and baseball, the Tigers are Louisiana’s foremost college teams.

Yet it’s concerning to see some college students shunning their own alma maters to support another one. For example, let’s consider Nicholls, which is right here in the Terrebonne-Lafourche area. Many of its academics are arguably better than those at LSU. The university boasts the best nursing program in the state, and its professors treat the students like people rather than mere numbers. My brother’s friends transferred to LSU to finish their degrees; after a year there, both said they wish they could have brought their professors along with them to Baton Rouge. But academics don’t sell foam hands and beer kegs. Sports do. LSU features a fantastic athletics program and represents our state on the national level. It’s no wonder everyone cheers for them.

It’s also possible that Nicholls students wear more Tiger threads on their own campus than Colonel clothes. That’s where I take issue. I confess I’m an LSU fan, but I’m also proud to be a Colonel. I’m not going to wear another university’s colors on the Nicholls campus; imagine wearing a Crimson Tide t-shirt all day at LSU. However, I concede it is difficult to find decent Nicholls gear. Part of the deficiency can be attributed to marketing: a tiger is easier to sell than a soldier who vaguely resembles Soviet-era propaganda. Local stores don’t carry much NSU paraphernalia because it doesn’t fly off shelves like LSU merchandise. Tigers are cute, dangerous, and colorful; the NSU mascot is a gray corpse. Do you ever see parents dressing their children as Joseph Stalin for Halloween? Of course the university offers an alternative: a nondescript letter “N.” The athletics division is apparently sponsored by Sesame Street.

Regardless of state sports camaraderie, university marketing, or fashion choices, are any of these legitimate reasons for students to identify themselves with a university other than their own? Where is their sense of school spirit? There’s no reason for students at Nicholls, UL, UNO, or other colleges to pretend they’re Tigers. Rooting for LSU sports is one thing, but refusing to display pride for one’s own alma mater is beyond ridiculous: it’s disgusting. Our local mall should have just as many Nicholls shirts parading through Chick-fil-A as LSU football tees.

By all means, we should cheer LSU through its football season, yet we should also cheer our local universities and support the schools that are actually in our communities. You can indeed have your cake and eat it too; or in the case of Nicholls, have your Tigers and your colonel/letter “N.” Just show some school spirit.

©2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

Like every good college student, my youngest brother commands an uncanny ability to properly waste time when he isn’t studying. His highly developed skill helps prevent mental breakdowns and other tragedies such as midnight viewings of the “Rocky Horror Picture Show.” My brother’s latest discovery is the web site Dear Blank Please Blank, which allows people to anonymously post letters for the world to read. Apparently, the site has existed for years, but its popularity has skyrocketed since it released an iPhone app.

Dear Blank Please Blank (commonly abbreviated DBPB) functions as a platform for people to boldly proclaim their thoughts while shrinking behind the anonymity of the Internet. Posts are set up as letters, hence the DBPB name. Anyone can write anything as long as they don’t slander someone. Readers rank each letter according to its level of outrageousness. Needless to say, the site attracts amateur comedians trying to top one another.

In fact, my first impression was that someone posting on DBPB must be either hopelessly cynical or unbelievably conceited. Most of the letters are written to people, but many are written to objects. Who constantly addresses inanimate objects, other than members of an ancient tribal cult? Then I pondered the web site’s therapeutic benefits: does DBPB help release tension as well as a massage, or is it the electronic equivalent to screaming into a pillow?

Yet once I read a few comments, I was hooked. The site is brilliant. People post outrageous, sometimes-hilarious comments that tend to be what everyone thinks but doesn’t say. “Dear mom,” reads one letter, “‘I’m bored’ does not mean ‘I want to do chores.’ Sincerely, still bored.” Another one says, “Dear America, You produced Miley Cyrus. Bieber is your punishment. Sincerely, Canada.” Finally, “Dear fat people on motorized carts, Please let actual handicapped people use them. Sincerely, walking’s a good start.” Wow.

My mind immediately filled in the blanks to write my own DBPB letters. The format is definitely a quick, painless way to blurt a few observations that don’t fit into any other column.

Dear Teenagers Who Quickly Let Go of Each Other When the Elevator Doors Opened,

I’m not an idiot, and you’re only fourteen.

Dear People Who Aimlessly Walk Side-by-Side Throughout the Mall,

A turtle could pass you. A crawling baby could pass you. My 98-year-old great aunt could toddle past you and simultaneously clean her dentures.

Dear Independence Day Fireworks Planners,

On July 4th, fireworks should be introduced with patriotic tunes, not your grandma’s favorite zydeco.

Dear City Planners,

Enough people really do make left turns from Savanne Road onto Highway 311 to necessitate a left-turn signal. Do you even drive in this city?

DBPB is entertaining, but its best quality is that it allows people to write comments without truly offending anyone. Although we like to believe we control our mouths, people unfortunately tend to speak quicker than they think—any spontaneous comment from Obama or Palin confirms this—and it’s generally a good idea for us to be silent until we have a chance to properly gather our thoughts. Solomon wrote that even a fool is considered wise if he remains quiet. I can confirm almost every outspoken person I know is a fool and should remain quiet. Until we can diplomatically express our thoughts to one another with logic and tact, we’ll have to rely on Dear Blank Please Blank.

©2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

We hope you had a splendid time at the TSA Casino. Our friendly showgirls and card dealers have toughened up a bit after some unfortunate incidents over the last few years, but I’m sure you noticed they still offer hospitable service with a smile. Did you get a chance to play Peep Show Roulette? The game is perfectly fair, yet I hear odds are stacked in your favor if your name doesn’t include “Mohammed.” You winners only had to walk through a metal detector, but the losers were part of X-ray shows that rival Vegas. I bet you sore losers are truly sore now that you’ve been poked, prodded, groped, and jabbed. It’s okay if things got a little frisky; what happens in TSA stays in TSA. And it makes all of us safer, right? That’s right.

Now I apologize if you had to crush your belongings into one carry-on bag for domestic flights. Although we’re offering moderately priced transportation services, our shareholders insist we nickel-and-dime you for everything else. Notice the pasted smile on my face as I speak to you. You can check one piece of luggage for just $25. We cannot guarantee we won’t lose it. Another piece is merely another $35. We might lose that suitcase, too. But you should have packed enough in your carry-on to go at least three days without your luggage. If you need a more convenient solution, we do sell a Mary Poppins-style carpet bag which automatically expands to hold its contents, from clothes to hairdryers to floor lamps. Please direct purchase inquiries to your nearest flight attendant.

Speaking of nickels and dimes, I do hope everyone remembered to pack a snack, because you won’t be getting one. We save an entire three dollars on each flight by not offering packs of peanuts, and we’re proud to pass those saving on to you. However, if you must eat some of our food, we offer prepackaged products that vaguely resemble meatloaf. Our First-Class passengers may choose between filet mignon or roast duck. Everyone else gets one glass of juice. After that, you can swallow your spit.

Some of you were wise enough to stop at the terminal’s food court and bring a meal on board. We encourage you to fill our air supply with the fragrant aroma of greasy, questionably prepared burgers and fries. Garlic and soy sauce are also welcome additions on this airline.

Now that it’s almost our turn to take off, we have a few things to say to certain classifications of guests. Please don’t feel stereotyped; it’s simply the way our marketing department tracks you. Grandmothers and grandfathers do not need to share pictures or stories with strangers; nobody cares about your grandchildren as much as you do. Hip teenagers should refrain from blasting music through cheap earphones, as we do not offer medical services for bleeding eardrums. We ask our business travelers to carefully remove their enormous suitcases from overhead bins; contents do shift during flight, and we’d like to avoid giving other passengers concussions. Parents with small children need to keep them quiet and well behaved, meaning some of you will have to learn how to say, “No.”

It looks like we’re ready for takeoff, so please power down all electronic devices, and remain buckled until the captain turns off the seat belt lights. Keep your seats in an upright position and your trays closed and locked. Try to forget how glamorous air travel was twenty years ago and just be glad we’re not charging you for air. Have a pleasant flight.

©Timothy Samaha 2011. First published in “PoV Magazine.”

Unless you’re someone who wears brightly colored, button-up shirts with pockets on each side, you probably don’t go bowling often. For us, bowling was one of the those things we mostly abandoned with other teenage activities like playing hide-and-go-seek in Wal-Mart. Old people did it too, and the others were bowling league members who had probably never been kissed in high school. Cool people only bowled at home via Wii Sports, laughing at one another’s antics while cooking organic stir-fry and holding intellectually stimulating conversations. Yet when we walked into the alley and heard the artificial thunderstorms rattling through the building—the same sound that drew Rip van Winkle to the ghostly hill—we couldn’t wait to join the din. Bowling suddenly transformed from a forgotten pastime to a battle for slick-lane supremacy.

A good soldier knows the importance of a good weapon, and each of us spent an unreasonable amount of time picking the perfect ball. We didn’t really know what we were looking for, but we pretended. Some were too heavy; others were too light; one was just right. Some had finger holes that were too big; others were too small; one was just right. Goldilocks was in the bowling alley. Many of the balls were gashed and chipped, looking eerily similar to Lady Gaga’s skull. Although only five of us were playing, we ended up with seven balls, because a few of the soldiers suffered indecision.

I must interrupt my narrative with a brief statement about the holes in an alley-owned bowling ball. When TV news producers can’t think of anything else to fill a program, they usually send a reporter with a pack of swabs to hotels and bowling alleys to test how much disgusting crap we encounter. They find viruses, feces, and other body fluids. I’ve watched some of those segments and couldn’t forget them as I slipped my fingers into that bowling ball. You know, it’s just something to consider.

Having chosen our weapons, it was time for the showdown. Two games would determine the champion. We entered witty names into the scoring computer and commenced the battle. Rolling the ball proved to be the funniest part of the event; some of us looked like pros and others resembled illustrations for Darwin’s Descent of Man. After each turn at the lane, the player commented on his own skill. At this point I realized bowling is probably the only game in which people constantly announce how much better they once were.

As for the bowling battle itself, we were awful. The majority of balls went straight to the gutters. To each side of us, better bowlers, including a ten-year-old kid, were making strikes with enviable precision and regularity. But we celebrated our few spares and strikes with the jubilation of a victory parade. After scrubbing our hands with almost an entire bottle of hand sanitizer, we ate bowling alley pizza and drank water to make ourselves feel better about it. We threatened each other with promises of how much better we’d be next time, and how this was just a warm-up, and how we only stank because it had been such a long time since our last game.

Thus the Battle for Ten-Frame Domination continues. We may never be good enough to join a bowling league or even a group of ten-year-olds; but hey, it’s something to do.

©Timothy Samaha 2011. First published in “PoV Magazine.”

But what has happened to the outrage? Have students thrown up their hands in disgust and conceded the situation is hopeless? Was the Governor’s statement carefully timed for late fall so that it would be eclipsed by holiday celebrations? Do people simply not care? Are we a state of intelligent, progressive citizens who understand that better education and work opportunities are necessary for development, or are we a group of beer-guzzling, bead-catching, uneducated crawfish eaters governed by corrupt politicians and the “Hot” sign at the local donut shop?

The answer is that much of the threat (but not all) has diminished. Happily enough, at the beginning of 2011, Governor Jindal announced that—by golly—we won’t actually have to make all those deep cuts after all. Louisiana’s education system will still get budget cuts, but instead of massive amputations, it will only be sliced—mere flesh wounds, really. Doesn’t that make you feel better? Evander Holyfield must have experienced similar relief when he realized Mike Tyson had only bitten off part of his ear, and not the whole thing.

In addition to that act of benevolence, Jindal later told the press he wants to guard our universities, and he was frustrated because everything in our state is constitutionally protected except higher education and healthcare. I did not watch him give this speech, but I assume it was more eloquent than the embarrassing rebuttal he delivered to Obama a few years ago. As long as the National Republican Party didn’t write it for him, it must have sounded remotely intelligent. Either way, our Governor’s sudden turnaround was dramatic enough to seem religious, and many students were celebrating the good news with an extra bowl of Ramen noodles.

But should students be pacified or maintain outrage until they know exactly how the new budget will affect them? One thing is certain: budget cuts are necessary. Simply put, the national economy sucks. I know it, you know it, and the Tea Party knows it. President Obama probably understands the concept of not printing one’s own money, but it’s a bothersome theoretical debate that interferes with posing for international cameras and establishing Camelot 2.0. Other states have been forced to hack chunks out of their university’s budgets, and we are lucky we still have TOPS. Jindal also apparently listened to suggestions on how our colleges can raise more money. However, we still don’t know exactly how extensive the cuts will be. For now, we can only take some comfort in knowing the situation may have improved, and wait for more information. In the meantime, keep your pitchfork and torch nearby, just in case you need it.

©2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

I hadn’t gone to New Orleans to celebrate Mardi Gras; in fact, I thought I would escape the Crescent City before the drunken revelry commenced. The parade started at 6:30 in the evening, and I planned to leave the city around lunch. “Surely,” I reasoned, “I can meet with a client at 10:30 on a weekday, and get out of Dodge before the beads and beer cans start flying.” But as soon as I saw police stopping traffic at 9:45, I realized I had misjudged how early New Orleans starts partying for Mardi Gras. At that point, the drivers became lunatics.

Now let’s put this incident in perspective, lest you think I’m a paw-paw who putts down the road fussing the hoodlum drivers around me. I know New Orleans has awful traffic. There are no rules, per se, but there are general guidelines, such as (1) move out the way before you’re creamed, and (2) stop before you cream someone else. Intersection cameras don’t deter locals from careening through red lights, and speed limits are posted primarily to help children learn numbers while their parents zoom through the narrow streets. At any time of year, Nola’s roadways are more insane than those of many other metropolitan areas. In January, I took two of my Dallas-based friends to the French Quarter, and they announced they had never seen such “crazy drivers.” Frommer’s travel guide advises tourists to rely on taxis and avoid renting a car, as local drivers are “unusually reckless.” A woman from Seattle told me she had never before felt so unsafe on a road, and a friend in Orlando said he would never again drive through the city. You get the idea. I told all of them that Juan’s Flying Burrito and Café du Monde are worth the stress. Now that’s the sentiment of a true Cajun.

But today, I reconsidered their complaints. At one red light, a stream of cars far behind me decided they wouldn’t wait for their turn in line, and they actually drove up the wrong side the road and forced the rest of us to let them in as we turned through the intersection! Several times in the Central Business District, I sat through my own green lights while others rammed through their red ones. Huge trucks zipped among each other like sports cars, with large items sliding about in their truck beds. But I noticed every ice chest was tied securely. They must have been full of beer. People were lowering their windows and hollering at each other to “move out the #!%* way.” Motorcycle cops surreptitiously appeared and slowed the traffic from about 70 to 35 miles-per-hour in seconds, and an idiot decided this was the perfect situation to test how quickly his Porsche could hop around other cars. I stopped at Whole Foods just to walk around and get blood flowing back into my legs. A visit to their bakery didn’t hurt, either.

Over the last few years, I’ve used my column as a platform to protest Houma’s traffic conditions, from our inadequate “planning” to unenforced traffic rules. I still steam when I bounce from one red light to another, because synchronized lights apparently work in every city except ours. Plus, local drivers have become increasingly impatient, taking moronic risks and following within inches of one another. Yet when I saw the Highway 311 exit today and the steeple on the new church being built out there, I murmured an understated “Hallelujah.” Sometimes, you’re simply happy to be back home.

© 2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

I’m not asking for an outstanding experience every time I order a milkshake; I humbly request just a smile or an accurate order fulfillment. Heck, I’ll take any proof that the person behind the counter is actually human. Yet some restaurants actually do offer such tokens of manners, and I find the level of service usually depends on the food the place serves.

National burger joints are notoriously indifferent to customers, a stereotype that’s proven true every day. Simple requests, like no pickles or extra onions, represent enormous obstacles for the food assembly line. Customer interactions don’t exist. In one drive-through window, a five-ton woman silently thrust the bag at me while shoving a snack cake into her mouth. Then she licked the crumbs off her fingers before passing the drink. Her physical size and lack of motivation functioned as a public service announcement: “Aaaaargh, this is what happens if you eat too much of our food!” In retrospect, I should have leaned back in my car, forcing her to stretch out the window. That might have been the only exercise she had all week.

On the other hand, chicken places appreciate my business. At the sailor man’s dive, I’m “baby” or “honey.” The Cow-Chicken Café welcomes me, assures me it’s their pleasure to take my money, and offers sanitary wipes to prevent mixing germs with grease. Then they ask if I want ketchup! At burger joints, I have to beg for my fruit serving; but the happy cow-chicken people practically invite me to help kill their food cost. I love them, I love their chicken, and I love their ketchup packets.

The clown’s yellow hamburger circus is in its own category. It’s the most despised, most-visited restaurant chain on earth. Say what you will about how they allegedly contribute to childhood obesity (since parents are too stupid to know when to stop shoveling grease at their kids), but the clown offers the best French fries anywhere. God created the potato and used a red-wigged sideshow freak to make it edible. Yet the clown’s smile betrays a sadistic streak; he apparently makes his employees wear cement shoes. I can grow a beard by the time a clown-ling brings me a cheeseburger. I suppose they still enjoy their jobs, because they sing and discuss boyfriend problems while salting French fries. They just simply don’t bring the food to you. Maybe this is part of the clown’s ingenious business plan: keep the customers starving, and the product tastes remotely like beef.

Of course, as health-conscious as I am, I’d rather eat a homemade, gluten-free, organic salad with brussel sprouts than suffer through a juicy piece of fried chicken. Like every good American who watches “The Biggest Loser,” I tolerate evil fast food only when I absolutely must. I simply ask that if I’m already ordering a 5,000-calorie combo of salted meat product and fried potatoes, it be served with a pleasant smile.

©2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

I realized the parallel between high school and adult behaviorisms when I taught two eleventh-grade computer science classes last fall. On the first day I immediately recognized the jocks, the nerds, the self-absorbed brats, and the awkward ones who could be socially successful if they simply tried. Everything was just like I’d remembered from my time in high school, except the kids looked much younger now. Did I really look that much like a child when I was in eleventh grade? Each day triggered enough flashbacks to fill an Oprah TV special; but I was most struck by how my students reminded me of people I know now, ten years after I graduated.

Regardless of their careers, some jocks grew into men whose eyes still glaze over when confronted with a complicated thought process outside a sports analogy. Any conversation containing a four-syllable word still zooms over their heads, and they’d rather watch another sports game than understand how to balance their checkbooks. Beer bellies aside, they flirt with younger ladies who politely laugh in return.

Adults who were highly intellectual students—but not geeks—might be successful, yet still feel their self-esteem waver a bit when they see others with perfect bodies and athletic prowess. At least they can mentally correct everyone else’s grammar and revel in self-congratulatory reassurance of superior taste in music and food. They also enjoy the twisted pleasure of seeing their old high school tormentors now fat or bald on Facebook.

None of the groups disturbs me as much as grown women who grasp their high school cliques and snobbery. It seems no matter how much they learned about British literature or Mesopotamian culture, they only remember High School Drama 101. Now too old for the skinny jeans they wear anyway, with once-tanned skinned turned to leather, they clack their heels through the mall, noses high in the air to display their boogers. They breathlessly trade gossip with each other, ignoring their brat children who run wildly just out of view. These women are the first to judge others, the first to spread rumors, and the first to dress their teenage daughters like hookers.

Nerds remain nerds, period.

Everyone remembers high school a bit differently. Maybe you recall academic trials and tribulations. Maybe the roar of a cheering stadium echoes through your mind. Perhaps you experimented too much and don’t remember anything. Nevertheless, as any high school teacher can confirm, you don’t have to try hard to remember life as a teenager. Just look at the people around you. If they read this column, they’ll be looking at you, too.

© 2010 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.

The American obsession with “family bonding” mostly exists to compensate for the family division that results from individual priorities. We seek to recapture the traditional values that existed before kids played multiple sports, before both parents worked from dawn to dusk, and before kids moved across the country for colleges and careers. What better way to force a modern family back to interacting with one another than by trapping them in a confined space and driving across fields and prairies for an indeterminate length of time?

Last Thanksgiving, my parents decided our family would celebrate the holiday with our relatives who live in the middle of nowhere. Once we actually arrived, we had a fantastic time, and I’m not complaining about anything that happened there. However, for the trip itself, my dad wanted everyone to ride together, in the grand tradition of a family road trip. There was just one problem. My parents’ kids aren’t “kids” anymore; we’re adults. But it was free gas, so we agreed to travel in our parents’ Expedition. (Station wagons are so 1980s.)

Within seconds of leaving our parents’ house at 3 a.m. (every good road trip starts before the sun rises), we were siblings again—not merely a technical fact, but also in spirit. We traded stories and laughed at the stupid people we know, and promptly fell asleep while our dad drove. When we awoke a few hours later, no number of Bachelor and Master’s degrees or workplace positions mattered. We were two brothers and a sister, and we acted like it.

It was the typical set of sibling squabbles. If the air conditioner was comfortable for one of us, it was too cold for someone else, so we maturely told each other to get a blanket and shut up. Someone had eaten too many gas-inducing foods, and the others had to lower their windows and deal with the smells. We constantly had to stop for restroom breaks because with different adults drinking coffee and water, no two people ever had to go at the same time. Someone’s foot, arm, or elbow was always in the way. A pillow fight ensued. At least none of us asked, “Are we there yet?” We simply looked it up on our phones.

Unlike the old days, when Dad used maps to plot destinations (and get us lost), he now followed GPS (and got us lost). The problem with GPS is that the maps are fully developed for large cities, where you can ask anybody for help; and the maps are incomplete for the boonies, where you really need to know where you’re going. One time when we were supposed to merge onto a highway, the GPS led us to a military base, where the amused guard told us, “It happens all the time!”

The true horror of a family road trip didn’t hit us until my mom wanted to shop at every Kohl’s we saw, and we kids realized we had surrendered all adult freedom to our parents. We were bound to their restaurants, their shopping whims, their radio stations. It was Communism on wheels.

Ironically, I’ve been flying so much over the last few years that I’d actually missed the family-bonding road trips of my childhood. My family has always been very close, and road trips provide great stories we’ll never forget. There’s also an intangible benefit of long-distance drives through our country: patriotism swells when I see natural landscapes unrestricted by cities and traffic. The quest for a clean restroom is kind of fun, too. One day I’ll have my own children, and we’ll take road trips for them to remember. But until then, I’m flying as much as I can.

© 2011 Timothy Samaha. First published in PoV Magazine.