Sometimes, though, the very stuff that makes you go limp and whiny like a kid in the supermarket beforehand turns out to be a whole lot better than you expected. It’s even kinda, maybe, fun. Almost cool. You actually kind of like it. A lot.

And that’s what today’s Three-fer is about.

Joining us is my buddy Jef Tingley (yes, one “f” and if that doesn’t make you tingly, nothing will). Jef is a writer and PR guy whose heart goes pitter-patter over all manner of pop culture. Jef says that little makes him happier than working a pun into a story. and if he can get it into the headline better yet.

***

The B-39 sub was tight quarters but big fun. Photo by Jeff Kubina via Flickr.

For traveling companions, museum going can be a divisive issue. There are the plaque readers and the non-plaque readers. I fall into the latter group.

So, when my partner and I stumbled upon the Maritime Museum of San Diego, I was suspicious. Although it was a pier filled with vessels including sailing ships and steam ferryboats, the thought of spending a day “on board” reading sans serif naval history narratives made me want to walk the plank.

Much to my surprise, it was an interactive wonderland. The standout is the B-39 Submarine. Although it’s filled with plaques a plenty, crawling through tiny portals and testing out sleeping quarters no larger than a coffin is exhilarating. Note to claustrophobics: skip this ship!–Jef

This is Tuddie Purdy. The man knows his macadamia nuts. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

Going to Hawai’i felt more like an I should get that out of the way than an I can’t wait! I had dumped it into the category of places where people with no imagination vacationed. Sure, it was going to be pretty but no way would it be interesting. I was so wrong. So very wrong. Along with the requisite (and excellent) beach sitting and snorkeling, on Moloka’i I renewed my love (and expanded my knowledge) of macadamia nuts, on Maui I drove the switchback-excellent Hana Highway, and, everywhere, I fell in love with the flowers. Oh, the plate lunches and shave ice are pretty damned amazing, too. Lucky me, I’m heading back there next week. Oahu awaits.–Jenna

Cheese curds. They look as good as they sound. Photo by Mykl Roventine via Flickr.

Cheese curds. Really, does anything sound good about that? I like cheese as well as the next cheese-liking person, but the word “curds” adds a certain blech factor. You could attach that word to anything and it would have the same effect. Chocolate curds. See what I mean?

But in Wisconsin, where people are apt to wear large Styrofoam cheese wedges on their heads, you really can’t get away without tasting cheese curds. So I ordered fried cheese curds at Wilson’s Restaurant & Ice Cream Parlor in Ephraim. They were crunchy, creamy, greasy, salty–damn, those curds were so good, they really should be called something else.–Sophia

In a shameless play for page views, I give you Tim Urban, shirtless--the Patron Saint Celebrity of Duncanville, Texas.

On my way home from the grocery store, I pass a portrait studio with “Vote for Tim Urban–American Idol” on its sign.

Tim was voted off the show a few weeks ago, but he’s still the patron saint celebrity of Duncanville, Texas. (Or Dunanville, Texas, as it’s spelled on the Idol website. Bummer.)

Casey James, who’s still in competition, is from Fort Worth, which doesn’t really need another patron saint celebrity; it already has braggin’ rights to Betty Buckley, Larry Hagman, Liz Smith, and King of the Road, Roger Miller. (I kinda think of him as a patron saint of Flyover America.) Among others.

Big cities can afford to be cavalier about patron saint celebrities, but small towns take them seriously.

If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times on the Outer Banks of North Carolina: “You know, Andy Griffith lives here.”

Andy isn’t big on making nice with fans – he’s protective of his privacy –but locals are awfully proud to have him.

“I remember the first time I saw him,” one told me. “It was at the Ace hardware store.”

Later, we drove past that hardware store. “That’s the one,” I said, in appropriate hushed tones. “Yes,” she nodded.

My pilot on a sightseeing flight pointed out Andy’s current house and the site where he was building a new home. At the Elizabethan Gardens, we paused to pay respects to a bench Andy donated. On a kayaking trip, a guide pointed out the vicinity of Andy’s home.

“You know, Andy Griffith lives here,” he said.

Assuming you don't want to see Andy Griffith shirtless, I give you instead the bench he donated to the Elizabethan Gardens in Manteo, NC.

Shawnee, Oklahoma lists Brad Pitt on its website, among other “Notable Residents,” though that’s stretching it a little. Brad was born in Shawnee but he grew up in Springfield, Missouri. He and Angelina Jolie etc. now live in New Orleans, which ignores them, one local boasted to me, as any self-respecting big city would.

Kentwood, Louisiana puts it right out there: “Britney Spears’ Hometown” it says on the homepage of its website, right underneath “Wonderful Water, Woodlands, and Wildife.” Dubious bragging rights at best, but you work with what you’ve got.

My hometown, Dallas, has Angie Harmon, although I’ve never really figured out what she’s famous for. We also have George Michael, for what that’s worth. And we have George and Laura Bush. But we’re a big city. We don’t have to care.

The New River Gorge in West Virginia is studded with the ghosts of towns build long ago by mining companies.

I’m having a hard time coming up with a meaningful topic today—what can I say in light of all the terrible things happening around the country:  Nashville under water, an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, a bomb in Times Square…?

Why, it’s almost enough to make you forget our last horrific event, way back in April, when 29 miners died in an explosion in a West Virginia coal mine.

I have a soft spot for West Virginia, which I have visited just twice. It is poor, and it is beautiful, and mining is woven into its past and present in ways good (it is an economy, however fraught) and terrible.

(Hm, I believe it’s time for another viewing of John Sayles’ also wonderful and terrible film, Matewan, a fictionalized tale about the very real labor wars in the West Virginia mines in the 1920s.)

On my first visit to West Virginia, I rafted the New River (and the Gauley, but that’s another story). Scattered along the New River Gorge are ghost towns, built by mining companies between 1873 and 1903 and abandoned as the mines were tapped out. By the 1950s, they were almost all empty.

I couldn’t tell you at which ghost town I took this photo. The trip was 20 years ago. But the memory of being there, wherever it was, lingers.

So, what’s my point here? I have none. I just wanted to take a moment, before we get distracted by the next disaster, to think of West Virginia.

Me, I got no high horse. I eat my broccoli, mostly because I have to. I eat lima beans. I actually like those. But I also eat Costco gourmet chocolate chunk cookies. On rare occasions, nothing but KFC will do. And at the airport, I sustain myself with both trail mix (health food) and Starburst.

And I happen to know that other people are also susceptible to foods they shouldn’t love, but do. So today’s three-fer is about foods we eat on the road that are so bad, but so good.

Joining us is Fort Worth-based food critic, cookbook author, and travel writer June Naylor. June not only shares her food passion through her writing (and her writing can make a gal mighty hungry), she and a partner also run Texas Toast Tours, culinary tours of our home state—a state, I might add, that specializes in wonderful, terrible food. Chicken fried steak. I rest my case.

***

Vegetarians, avert your eyes. Everyone else, wipe that drool from your chin. Mueller's isn't just good. It's legendary. Photo by June Naylor.

Even after a long day of fat-packed Central Texas barbecue touring, I managed to make room in my gut for one more stop.

My 4 p.m. arrival at Louie Mueller Barbecue, the vaunted meat palace in the burg of Taylor, found the crowds gone. I had the legendary joint nearly to myself, the better for focusing on my piece of butcher paper laden with handmade jalapeno sausage and tender pork ribs, smoked over post oak and crusty at the edges.

A refreshing breeze swept through the screened-in porch as I sipped a pint jar of Shiner Bock and chatted with Wayne Mueller, Louie’s grandson, about the joys of eating barbecue. Every Saturday afternoon should taste this good.–-June

Boiled peanuts aren’t bad for you. It’s a quantity thing here. I, quite simply, cannot stop with just a handful. I

Jenna ate this man's boiled peanuts. She doesn't know what the woman on the gurney consumed. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

eat and eat and eat until my mouth is so dried out from salt that I start speaking funny. Though I once paired them with port–surprisingly delicious–I prefer a calorific icy cold Coke with my peanuts. And I’ll buy them from just about anyone anywhere. Really, I’ve eaten boiled peanuts out of pots that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in…generations. Those always taste best. It’s like a hot dog from an NYC street vendor–the dirtier the hands, the better the hot dog. (I know: gross.)–Jenna

I'm sure if I eat enough McGriddles I'll eventually look just like this.

Jenna and June are foodies whereas I’m one of those food-is-fuel people. So it figures that even my bad-food indulgence is going to be badder (and not in a good way) than theirs.

Ladies and gentlemen: The McGriddle.

I know, I know. McDonald’s is the evil empire and it nearly killed Morgan Spurlock. But sad I am those times I start a road trip too late in the morning to kick it off with bacon, egg, and cheese between two pancake-like disks. Maybe it sounds terrible, and I’m not among those who, under normal circumstances, allows my pancake syrup to touch anything else on my breakfast plate. But for some reason the McGriddle makes it all work.

I’m so ashamed.—Sophia

How can you not find peace and insight in a setting like this? Photo by Sophia Dembling.

Saturday is World Labyrinth Day which is convenient because I was planning to tell you about this labyrinth anyway, and now I have a “news hook” to validate my existence.

I’m in love with the labyrinth on the Ghost Ranch in Abiquiu, New Mexico. I walked it twice during my recent two-day visit and still think about it. I even videotaped part of one go around, hoping that I might be able to recapture the magic back at my desk, but of course I can’t.

The labyrinth faces red cliffs and is surrounded by desert trees, flowers, and shrubs that give off a sort of toasty fragrance. I walked the labyrinth at a leisurely pace, listening to the plants rustling and rattling in the breeze, to my own breath, to the gravel crunch…crunch…crunching underfoot. I looked at faraway rocks, then nearby flowers, then within, at my own slowing, gentling thoughts. After I finished walking, I’d sit on a bench alongside the labyrinth, sketching the scenery, enjoying the afterglow.

Georgia O’Keeffe lived and painted for the last half of her life on the Ghost Ranch, which was a dude ranch when she first visited. She later bought a house and little chunk of the ranch for herself. (Her house and property are owned by the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and nobody gets to see it except maybe Charlize Theron on a photo shoot for Vogue.) The rest of the Ghost Ranch’s 21,000 acres is owned by the Presbyterian Church. The facilities are, essentially, a church camp, with all that implies. Shared bathrooms (some rooms have private baths). Plaid polyester bedspreads. Cafeteria meals in a dining hall. (Good rib-sticking food.) The Ghost Ranch also has a schedule of weeklong workshops on matters spiritual and artistic, and it’s in transition right now, trying to entice tourists while maintaining its blend of spirituality, nature, and art. (The church doesn’t use it much anymore.)

The ranch has lots of great hiking, and a couple of museums and a really nice little library. The museums and trails are open and free for day trippers, or you can stay a night or two. (Or more.) Just goofing off here is a brain adjustment. The red rock spectacle and other-worldy air make it the kind of place that forces you to breathe more slowly and feel more deeply. And maybe walk around and around, crunch…crunch…crunch.

I wish I were on that labyrinth right now.

I can't wait to get on the road again. Photo by Sophia Dembling

OK, you’ve rocked (etc.) with Jenna’s road trip mix, now it’s time to sing along with mine.

When I hit the highway for a road trip, I start on a Texas highway—big, bold, bright, and straight-on for miles. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all about country music. (Mostly, anyway.) And since I have a weakness for cheesy ‘70s country, I’m kicking things off with Smokey and the Bandit. Heehee.

From there, all hopped up coffee and the promise of adventure, I’m all about funtime singalong. Later I’ll get soothing or pensive or complicated or angry (for city driving), but now I want to bop in my seat with a big, goofy, road-trip grin and sing off key. That’s what this playlist about. Nothing serious here.

And to wrap up this list, we settle into a cruise-control groove with Edgar Winter’s White Trash. Because, yes, I’m that old. Saw them live.

Joining us is an underground hero and a Dallas celebrity, Bucks Burnett—record dealer; former editor of the Mr. Ed Fan Club newsletter; one-time manager of the late Tiny Tim. (My family owned God Bless Tiny Tim back in the day, and we listened to it. I can still sing some of the songs.)

You might have read about Bucks in this article in the Wall Street Journal; he wants to open a museum of eight track tapes because, as he says in the article, “There are only two choices. A world with an eight-track museum and a world without an eight-track museum. I choose with.” I was at the opening of the three-day show the WSJ wrote about here and it was, indeed packed with everyone in town who appreciates irony, kitsch, and Bucks.

If you happen be in Dallas, say hey to Bucks at his record store inside the very excellent thrift shop Dolly Python.

***

Junk store gold: The pink "Houses of the Holy" eight track, now with Jimmy Page autograph. Beautiful.

Nothing makes me stop quicker than a really junky looking junk store. Preferably a decaying shack with a poorly made sign. I mainly like to buy eight-track tapes and old photos of people I don’t know. Almost 20 years ago, I was going insane looking for a pink cartridge version of Led Zeppelin’s Houses Of The Holy. Before eBay, you could only find eight tracks at garage sales, thrift stores, etc. One day in Arkansas, middle of nowhere, crummy little house…I did a U-turn, with that eight track in my head. The owner, an 80-year-old black farmer, handed me a box of about ten eight tracks, and there it was, the pink Zep, for $1. I later got it signed by Jimmy Page. Dreams really can come true.–Bucks

Jenna would never think to abandon a cup of coffee like this. It's just cruel. Photo by srslyguys via Flickr (Creative Commons license).

An empty cup holder is a sad cup holder. A cup holder that’s got my ninth cup of coffee of the road trip day in its grips is a very happy cup holder. And that makes me a happy Jenna. From truck stops that serve up coffee that just barely deserves to be called coffee to tiny roadside espresso stands that turn out lattes with elegant designs in the foam, I’ve rarely passed a coffee-serving joint that I didn’t, at least, consider pulling into. Though, yes, I’m clearly a caffeine addict, the best part of my coffee stops are the brief chats I have with–and the info I collect from–the clerk or barista of the moment.–Jenna

Of course I had to brake for this. Who wouldn't? Photo by Sophia Dembling.

I brake for oddball museums (the Texas Prison Museum, the Toy & Action Figure Museum) but even so, it’s rare to luck into something like Jim’s Metal Art Museum,  in itty-bitty Gage, Oklahoma. Now, I sometimes have trouble stopping once I get going, but fortunately, I had Bird Chick in my passenger seat when we passed this amazing wheelasaurus. We both slammed our foot on our brakes (mine worked better than hers) and I couldn’t not pull over. Behind this guy, a big yard was crammed with folk art sculptures (and a lot of junk), though sadly, it was fenced off and locked up. Still we pressed our faces to the fence and marveled. We love you, Jim.–Sophia

You needn't drink heavily to love the Museum of the American Cocktail.

Indeed. Words for bartenders to live by. I found them at the super-swell Museum of the American Cocktail in New Orleans.

Getting to the museum is a slog, all the way through the Riverwalk Marketplace (fancy name for a mall), up to the third floor (passing a line of people at a Café Du Mond outpost—is it really the same inside a mall?), past the kiosk where a guy writes your name on a grain of rice, through the food court, to (finally) the Southern Food and Beverage Museum, into which the cocktail museum is tucked. Though the museums are separate nonprofits, $10 gets you into both.

The Southern Food and Beverage Museum is still, quite honestly, in the great-potential phase, heavier on ideas and information than on artifacts. Still, give a look, learn about King Cakes and red beans and rice and the banana, America’s most popular fruit. (I particularly liked the package of Jiffy Pop hanging from a nail in the exhibit area about corn.)

I covet.

But the cocktail museum is fully formed, with sleek displays and a brilliant collection tracing the history and artistry of the cocktail.

I’m not much of a drinker—a margarita now and then, a glass of wine or two in the evening. And I’m utterly grossed out by the debauchery of Bourbon Street. But I loved this museum. I loved the historic memorabilia, such as temperance postcards distributed at movie theaters: “I didn’t like the movie _____ because it was TOO WET!” I loved the art deco cocktail services. I loved the vintage drink menus. I loved the Happy Face cocktail shaker. And most of all, I loved a bar cloth depicting a cocktail party, drawn, it seems, by one Angus Smith. (Or was that the company?) If you stumble on this on eBay or something, let me know, would you?

Of course Lady Liberty made the cut.

If you were a woman, where would you go? And if you’re already a woman,  I’m asking you, too. Especially.

I’m currently working on a book titled 100 Places in the USA Every Woman Should Go, which will be published by Traveler’s Tales next spring. It’s part of a series that includes 100 Places Every Woman Should Go and 100 Places in Italy Every Woman Should Go.

What is the criterion for a place every woman should go? The bottom line: If I say so. I mean, it’s just a book. Nobody is going to be held to this. You don’t get your membership in Club Estrogen revoked if you don’t visit all these places. And of course, any place a woman should go is also a place a man should go. Or, in some cases, could go. So don’t give me lip. I didn’t invent the series, I’m just adding my two cents. Or, in this case hundred places.

So anyway, all I want of the places I include is to be able make a good argument (at least to myself) that they should be included. I have cities, historic sites (i.e. Women’s Rights National Historic Park), homes of famous women ( Orchard House), shops (Tiffany), outdoors (Grand Canyon), museums (Tenement Museum) and lots more…a hundred places is a lot of places. I’m casting a wide net. And no, I won’t be visiting all these places to write the book. Not possible. I’m doing my reporting through research and interviews, as necessary.

I polled a bunch of friends on the subject and a few places came up again and again—particularly Santa Fe , New Orleans, and Savannah. A few places were mentioned just once but were compelling enough to include. Some I’d never heard of but now that I have, I can’t wait to go.

But I still have room for more suggestions and I’m tossing the question out to you, wonderful readers. What places do you think I should include, and why?

Photo by Video4net via Flicker (Creative Commons).