Many years ago we took a long road trip down the west coast to go do all those "down the west coast" things that families do.

Specifically, all those "down the west coast things" entail parents answering "are we there yet? are we there yet?"

GPS (Global positioning system) was probably invented by parents who take their kids on long road trips.

"Here, when the white arrow reaches the flashing red light, we're there!"

"Dad! We're not even on the MAP yet! Are we on the map yet? Are we on the map yet?"

Anyway, we had spent a considerable time on the road driving south (which included our air conditioner fritzing out in Oakland) and even traveled to Vegas. (Note: the only gambling we did was driving across the Mojave Desert in late July with no air conditioning.)

On the way back, (read: DISNEYLAND!) we lost a Polaroid camera and a Barney (tm) backpack on the Teacup ride.

Now, the Teacup ride doesn't get you anywhere fast, and Star Tours (tm) and Space Mountain (r) always deposit you back at Disneyland, so we knew eventually we would have to drive back in the car with nonfunctional A/C.

We finally worked up the courage (read: I was able to ride "Pirates of the Caribbean" twice without screaming) to try to drive back home.

Part of the problem with long drives is that I'm something of a wallet-sized cards packrat. I have cards from coffee shops in twenty different area codes, all with one punch on them. I have business cards, I have grocery store club cards, I have medical cards and even expired insurance and AAA cards. In the words of a former boss, "if it were any bigger, it'd need wheels." Unfortunately it didn’t have wheels, and it occupied my back pocket.

(This was before my friend Henry’s mom Sylvia (who is a massage therapist) nearly throttled me because the wallet was causing spinal and hip misalignments. (I certainly wouldn’t carry such a wallet now…right Sylvia?))

So whenever I drive long distances, I usually wind up very tired, and practically crippled.

On our trip home, I was dead tired and needed to stop for some gas and coffee somewhere in central California.*

I got out of the car, hobbled to the pump, slid my credit card and started pumping, all the while half asleep, and half disabled. When the pump stopped, I replaced the nozzle and prompted with the question "do you want a receipt?" I pressed "yes."

Then the pump asked me a question I wasn't ready for: "Do you want a car wash?"

I looked at my windshield and grill of the station wagon. The only things in my car worse off than me in my semi-conscious, semi-crippled state, were the 140,000 or so moths, mosquitoes and various other insects.

In fact, that particular road trip may have single-handedly been responsible for the extinction of entire species of bugs.

"Heck, YEAH" was my reply to the question. Unfortunately, the only option in the affirmative was "yes" so I punched the button really hard.

The printed receipt included a code to enter at the "touch free" car wash. I jumped into the car, banging my head on the roof as I did, and started it up.

"What's going on?" Julie asked, half-asleep.

"You'll see," I said, half-awake, as I immediately drove to the car wash.

I have to admit: The car wash was exhilarating, even after I rolled up the windows.

Thick streams of soap, wax and various other detergents spritzed all over the car, immersing it in a gooey coat of bubbly goodness. Eventually the party was over, with my car rinsed and blown dry, as shiny and new as a '88 Chevy Celebrity wagon could be. In fact, the car looked as beautiful as it did the day my mother gave it to me.

Feeling renewed, I entered the gas station/convenience store to purchase a couple quarts of gas station-flavored coffee.

When I entered, however, two gentlemen were inside, laughing hysterically. Seeing only the early morning farm report on the television, and nothing particularly funny about plagues of locust consuming entire crops of guar gum and phenylalanine, I inquired as to the source of their jocularity.

I would like to note at this point that, as a comedian, I WANT people to laugh at me. I CRAVE having people laugh at me... but I want to know WHY they're laughing at me, because I want it to be INTENTIONAL!!!

“Whassofunny?” I managed to blurt out.

“Dude, look at your car!” Both pointed out the window.

I looked out to my car, and saw that to the untrained eye, there was significantly more than just a crimson '88 Chevy Celebrity, gleaming as much as it had on the day its registered owner had received it from his mother.

Much, much more.

I stared at the car and took in the whole thing. Much to my amazement, I saw I had made a small error in judgment.

You see, we had four kids with us on the trip, and in order to give them some extra leg room, I had rearranged some of the luggage.

In this case, I had tied two strollers and six duffel bags filled with our clothes to the roof rack of the station wagon, and had subsequently washed the lot of them in the automated car wash.

It was then that I realized that they hadn't been watching something funny on broadcast television, but rather the closed-circuit surveillance video from inside the car wash. From the angle displayed on the small black-and-white monitor, they would have gotten a beautiful bird's-eye-view of my duffel bags getting spritzed.

“Oh... yeah... heh.Just doing my laundry, boys” I said, digging quickly in a pathetic attempt to preserve some of my male pride.

“With hot wax?”

OK, so they had me there. All my male pride slipped away, slinking off to sulk in the corner while I paid for the coffee cups.

We got a room in the next town and strung clothes lines from wall to wall. By morning, we all woke up, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and shiny-clothed.

*Note: There are just two people outside of our family who know this story first hand, but from the other side of the counter. If either of you happens to read this, please tell us what city we were in on Aug. 4 or 5, 1999, and I’ll credit you by name in later retellings.

Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight (Special Edition): Phoenix Flight Book One