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(DAILY_WILDCAT)

By Craig Degel
Arizona Daily Wildcat
August 29, 1997

Roadtrip

A father and son embark on a cross country adventure


 


Arizona Daily Wildcat


As we were peering over the edge of the Empire State Building on a muggy New York City Saturday afternoon looking for nude sunbathers, it occurred to me that whenever my dad and I travel together, public acts of indiscretion are involved.

Take the time we were walking through the red light district in Hamburg, Germany. It's a walled off section of town and down each side of the street are fifty windows, each with a woman wearing next to nothing.

"Dad, let me borrow 20 bucks?" I asked

"No," came his typically simple reply.

We walked further and as my 19-year-old eyes fell in love every 10 feet, I looked over to one girl and saw her wave me over with her finger and a come hither look that Sharon Stone wishes she had on her best day.

 

"For the love of God, man, $20 is all I ask," I said with desperation.

"It'll cost a lot more than that," he said as he peeled me off the window.

Just how the hell he knew, that is something that I could never quite figure out.

Down the road with Mr. Degel

New York City was the starting point of a 2,750-mile drive home for the two of us. I had spent the summer working in New York and was eager to get home. What I wasn't eager to do was drive through the midwest in my air condition-less babe magnet of a Ford Aerostar. But Dad was tagging along.

Not five hours into the trip was our second public act of indiscretion of the weekend. I was sleeping at the time and my Dad was behind the wheel, navigating us through the mining towns in West Pennsylvania. When I awoke, he related the story to me. It seems a woman was servicing a man in a car and I don't mean she was checking his oil. Although, depending on your own personal euphemisms, she might have been. My dad didn't wake me up. I still haven't forgiven him. You always hear about things like that, and you want to be fully awake to see them. God, I need help.

That first night, we were staying somewhere outside Columbus, Ohio. We pulled into the parking lot of a Red Roof Inn - You've got to love Martin Mull - and rented a room.

Just two days into the trip, my dad and I had tired of burgers. Two lunches at McDonald's in two days will do that. However, we were in the Midwest, home of the single greatest artery blocker known to man: White Castle. Say what you want, that place is perfection on a bun. We weren't very hungry so we walked over and asked for just one burger a piece. Now, if you've ever seen a White Castle, you'll know that one isn't enough to even notice as you inhale it. To top it off, my dad and I had just driven for 10 hours so we were a little slap happy. We were talkative and had the giggles. I'm pretty sure the employees thought we had just finished off a joint and gotten the munchies.

St. Louis and Baseball Bonding

The next day, we cruised into my Dad's hometown of St. Louis, Mo. And I know this seems silly to say at my age, but my dad can kick your dad's ass. I've seen his old neighborhood. My dad grew up on the south side of town near the Budweiser brewery (a fact that I firmly believe shaped his life). My grandmother still lives in St. Louis though in a much better part of town, which is to say that none of her closest neighbors have boards on their windows.

On the way into the city my dad astutely noticed that the Cardinals were in town. I knew there was a reason I liked that guy. We decided to take an extra day because the Cardinals had just acquired my favorite player, Mark McGwire. Some people say I look like the slugger. The comparisons pretty much stop there.

Baseball, beer, hot-dogs and a night on the town with dad. That's good stuff. Baseball has been one of the bonds between the two of us. He taught me how to catch and throw, which was the only thing I did well on a baseball field. I always wanted to be the Lou Gehrig of my generation, but as I got older I became a little more Lou Grant and a little less Lou Gehrig every year. Dad didn't care, being an athlete isn't all that big a deal to him. I liked that. My brother is an incredible athlete. I cherish the fact that my dad and I will go through life as horrible athletes. We get to make fun of each other, which is another of our favorite pastimes.

"Fuck you, jack," he'll announce out of the blue. "You should be glad, because my father never talked to me that way."

"Oh yeah," I say trying to think of something really good. "Well, I have more hair than you." Oh, that's a good one.

My dad's a better Don Rickles. Like I said, it was a tough neighborhood.

Anyway, McGwire hit one out, so did Todd Hundley, another of my favorite players. Dennis Eckersley got a save and the Cardinals won. My dad was happy that the Cardinals won, he hasn't really followed them since the Johnsen administration, but anybody wearing a Redbirds cap is a friend of his. To see the look in his eyes at Busch Stadium is like looking into his past. I hope I can share baseball with my son someday, but with my luck he'll want me to teach him golf. There's no way the next Tiger Woods will be related to me.[photograph]

The next night the two of us went with my grandmother and my aunt to play bingo. If you've never played bingo with your grandmother, I'd highly recommend it. Unless, of course, you have as much luck as me, then you should just stay home. We played 19 games and not once did I come anywhere near a win. It's a good thing we were leaving the next day, otherwise we may have had to play again.

Oklahoma! and Home Again.

If you've never been to Oklahoma, remember these simple rules:

1. It's hot.

2. Really hot.

It was in Oklahoma where I really started to appreciate all that dry heat b.s. that Tucsonans love to crow about. The weatherman had a simple forecast for the state. Steamy.

Humidity is the single biggest reason people move west. Forget the gold and land rush, it was just too damn hot out there.

The last night, we were in Socorro, N.M., home of New Mexico Tech and the Very Large Array. That's the satellite project that Jodie Foster worked on in "Contact." I didn't see any aliens, though. It's just as well, their planet is probably just as hot and windy as New Mexico.

The one thing I enjoyed about New Mexico was that it marked a return to a region with good Mexican food. The Mexican in New York is garbage and their idea of hot is extra chili powder. Give me the sinus-clearing, burn-the-hair-off-your-feet heat from a Nico's or a Rosa's. I have one simple rule for Mexican food. If I don't regret eating it the next day, it just isn't that good. Besides, my dad was getting Mexican for dinner and I wasn't about to let him blow me out of the room without the ability to launch a counter attack. Ah, the things men do to entertain themselves.

"What's that sme... Oh, good one, Dad."

"Thanks, son, I gotta go change my shorts."

Perhaps I went a little too far with that story.

The last day of the drive was a short one. We passed through all those Arizona towns that people are too embarrassed to admit that they're from. You know, Bowie, Willcox, Benson. I did some things I've always wanted to do. I saw the place that houses "The Thing" and I bought a sandwich from a gas station.

Dad and I got home and went our separate ways again, off to lead our Tucson lives. He works, I work. I look forward to the next time we travel again. Perhaps we can avoid public acts of indiscretion.

If not, I hope he'll at least have the common courtesy to wake me up.

Craig Degel is a journalism senior who really enjoys Harry Chapin songs but hopes to never be one.

 


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