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Connie submits this report from her cross-state Democratic Road Trip with “the daughter.”

The daughter and I returned from our SIX-HOUR concert about 1:30 a.m. last night.  I cannot remember a concert where I drew Snoopy on the left ankle of the young man behind me (in red ink) and then, on his right ankle, played tic-tac-toe with my daughter.  (It was a draw.) Plus, I sprayed BOTH of the young man’s feet with Burberry perfume (from my purse) since they were really smelly feet, which he insisted on parking on the arms of MY chair. At one point, he grabbed my notebook and wrote in it, “I have no idea what you are doing here. I can't see sh-t, but keep this. Thanks and bye.” Earlier, I heard him and his friends discussing how I had “probably remembered every President back to Lincoln.” The sad thing is, they are right. He kids me about “growing up in the seventies” and wants to know if I ever “smoked reefer.” I feel flattered that he thinks I “grew up in the 70's.”  That makes me much younger than I am, so I am enjoying that comment. As for the reefer question: allergic, you know. Only contact highs. I respond, “Yes, but I never inhaled,” thinking he will get the joke. He does not.
 
In the parking lot afterwards, while waiting for the cars to move out to the road, the car ahead of us contains a fake snake. One of the young college men in the party puts the snake between his legs and gyrates (like a Chippendale Dancer).The snake looks very real, so I roll my car windows up. The daughter, who is beginning to sound a little like Typhoid Mary, says, “Why are you rolling up the windows?” I pretend it is for her health. It is really because I fear that the kid with the snake might gyrate over to us and do God-knows-what.

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