In the early 1980s, I was sitting in a bar with a bunch of friends, one of whom was from Philly. We were lamenting the inability to get a decent cheesesteak in Massachusetts (which you still can't). One thing led to another, and we decided to drive to Philly to get a cheesesteak. Interestingly, the guy from Philly backed out, but three of us decided to go for it (after my girlfriend wisely delayed us until we were in better shape for the drive). We arrived at 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and we went to Pat's only because I knew it would be open.
After that, we were pretty tired; so we went to my Mom's apartment. She wasn't home; so we crashed on her living room floor. My friend Mike had driven, and I had sold him my beat up old 1966 Valiant. My Mom came home, saw what looked to be my former car outside, with Mass. plates. She found us asleep on her floor.
Now that our sleep schedule was messed up, we went to the Phillies game on Saturday night and drove home overnight. Fun times!