A few evenings ago, while walkin’ about town with the Susanka Pack, I casually mentioned a friend (and his family) who were driving from California to Philadelphia to see the Pope. Most of the boys responded as I would have expected, either with terror-and-concern (over the length of the drive), or with excitement-and-mild-envy (at the opportunity to see Il Papa).
David (The Fourth), however — a perpetual motion machine, both physically and cognitively — piped up with an entirely different take:
“Aren’t they afraid of the vampires?”
“Wait,” I thought. “What?” So I pressed him on it.
“You know, Pennsylvania. The home of the American vampire.”