October 30th, 2000 Please enjoy each delicious chapter, hotlinked below. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 The worst thing you can do when you go on a road trip with Marc is to actually bring Marc with you. I'm not saying Marc isn't a great guy. Hell, I love him, and there's nobody I'd rather donate a kidney to, but when you're trying to cross country with your own Editor-in-Chief, well... I think you'll get the idea by the time I'm through with this entirely true story. Road Trip with Marcus part 1 of 5 By Gary Now before we even begin, you have to realize the precarious nature in which I find myself a resident of Florida. My parents think it's because I've been in college for about the last 10 years of my life. My friends think it's because I like it here. My co-misinformants believe it's because I've opted to take the "opposite" coast, unlike most of them who have pretty much all of the west covered, continually scouring it for comedy and free beer. Probably the only folks who know exactly why I live here would be the California State Police, who not only have banned me from California, but have paid me significantly to, and I quote the Deputy: "take this god-damned money and get your ass as far out of this state as that Ferrari will take you. I'ma give you 30 seconds, and if you ain't a trail of dust headin' for the eastern seashore, I'ma start shootin'." I replied "but officer, I've stolen that car, are you sure you wanna let-" "1, 2, 6..." "I'm GOIN'!" "8..." Bearing this in mind, it was with great trepidation that I allowed myself to be coerced into returning to this unholiest of unholy lands. I can still remember awaking to the phone ringing in the middle of the night. Oh how my voice tremored and seemed to carry forever upon the silence of that cold September midnight. Me: Hello? Marc: Dude, I got an inline scooter! Me: Yeah? Marc: This is Marc. Me: ...dad? Marc: No no, your boss. You know, from misinformer? Me: You're missing a farmer? Marc: Look, c'mon over and see my scooter, alright, or your ass is history! Me: Is this my editor? Marc: Be here by tomorrow afternoon, dig? Me: Dude, I'm an outlaw there. And plus, it's like 5000 miles away! Marc: Fine, tomorrow night then, or your ass is history! Me: In a Ford Focus? Give me a couple days you oppressive bastard! Marc: Scooter, tomorrow! Or "History" is the name of your replacement ASS! (-CLICK-) Marc makes up really weird expletives when his emotions peak, but unfortunately for the tired me, he remembers what he says later and then stubbornly makes sure to follow through on all the weird things he comes up with, I assume out of pride. I recall that on one of his more emotional pantomimes, in Wal*Mart no less, he screeched out "You're just pissed that I can fit in the ball crate, unlike you, who can't!" I didn't know what he meant by "ball crate," but I learned soon enough when he began to prove this theory of his by crawling into that metal wire structure that holds all the inflatable rubber balls. It was two hours before we all decided to leave him for dead. The only reason we waited THAT long was so we could get the disposable camera pics of his self imprisonment developed at Wal*Mart's one-hour photo lab. They're really funny. I should scan a few of those and post them. Skip forward now to the part where I drag myself up to his front doorstep, in California. Barely remembering the "password," that I hadn't needed for like a year, I am pelted by water balloons until I can finally blurt out "Bruce Campbell RULES!!!," ending the peltings and further soaking. It wasn't the actual password, but as memory serves me, and according to Marc, "it damn well should be." Inside, I would dry off with a towel so warm, I could only suspect two things: 1) Marc has a towel warmer, and 2) he was expecting to drill an innocent person with watery terror this evening. It is no matter, for awaiting us in his foyer are two, top-of-the-line scooters, and he even has a spotlight nailed to his door frame, shining down on them. He's such a showman. Me: Wow, viewing these is so worth the $300 I spent in gas money to get here. There's not a whole lot of happiness in my life right now, but I sure as hell am glad that I won't die NOT having seen THESE. Marc: You're funny. Hop on that one and follow me. We rolled silently through what felt like miles of dark hallway before finally ending up outside, somehow, right next to my car. Marc took both of the inline marvels, folded them up and stuck them in my trunk, stating "We'll probably need these somewhere between here and where we're going..." "Where ARE we going?," I asked. "Florida."

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