Over the 11.5 months it took me to acquire the upgrade to my GPS, I allowed the stupid thing to get me lost on numerous occasions. Each time I followed its directions, I was hopeful that this time would be the time that it would actually get me to my destination. It never was. Never once. In an area with new roads popping up on the daily, even a highly outdated application is more reliable than my sense of direction. So, how thrilled was I to get the GPS update? Tha-rilled.
The first call to action for the New and Improved GPS took place this weekend, during yet another epoch adventure. We set up camp in Penn's Landing, PA, then took a little ferry over to the Tweeter center. It was a nice, romantic ride; just us and 39,000 other fans floating on over to Jersey via the good ship Enron. Nothing scary about that. Some crazy woman gave me a seat then proceeded to yap to me about Al-Queda and how "this would be a perfect spot for them to hit". Every seat has its' price.
The show was fantastic (natch), though it sounds like Tom might need a Ricola or two, and B donated a toenail to the cause. No shortage of crazy ladies this trip, the bottle rocket of a grandma sitting next to us stomped the living bejesus out of B's foot. We both wished that she had, instead, gone to see Melinda.
Still in good spirits, we decided that we weren't even going to bother trying to get the ferry back and meandered around the parking lot for ... well, the rest is a little blurry. But we did wind up being the absolute last people to catch the ferry, then hiked back to home base. Our feet and brains were pissed as we spent the next day wandering around Philly, serendipitously discovering South street, a glass art museum, and Jim's cheesesteak. At one point, after several "huzzah!"s, chats with hotdog venders, and visiting Ben Franklin's to(i)let, our allotted time was dwindling, it came down to a decision between standing on line to see the Liberty Bell, or standing on line at Jim's for lunch.
Goal: Eat a Philly Cheesesteak Before I die. Result: Check!
Mmmm mm mmm... check.
Naturally, we left later than planned and would have to make up some time on the road in order to make it to the Skins v. Jets game back in DC. No, I didn't get a speeding ticket (smart ass) but I did hear the "you are out of gas" warning beep from my beloved vehicle for the first time ever.
Down to only the strongest of the reserve braincells and fuel fumes, when the New and Improved GPS asked if I would like it to tell me where the nearest gas station was, I clicked the "fuck yeah"! button. And we were off. Off on a mission. Using the last of our gas molecules. We were on our way. Ok, here we go. GPS said turn left, we turned left. GPS said turn right, we turned right. Sure seemed a long way, but I figured that was just because of the Riding on Fumes stress. Finally, we "Reached our Destination" and there it was; nothing. No gas station. Not even remnants of a gas station. Unless we were going to fuel up on dirt, we were seriously s.o.l. STUPID FUCKING GPS!!!
Forced to resort to the pre-GPS means of direction seeking, and fresh out of maps and divining rods, I yelled out the window to a passing motorist and asked for the nearest gas station. A few miles later, we coasted in to an Exxon somewhere in the armpit of Philly (whew!) where some kids were filling up sprite bottles with gasoline. Ahh... it was like we were already home...