La Crosse, Wisc, September 4th

Once you leave the Black Hills in the western part of South Dakota, there ain't nothin' for a thousand miles except Badlands (okay) and farmland. It's tedious, monotonous and boring; ironically, what George W. would call the 'Heartland'. Of course, those adjectives could just as well apply to 'W' himself. Appropriate CD accompaniment: Dvorak's "Stabat Mater"

Years ago, motorists' routes were two-lane roads which today we call byways. These roads had myriad roadside attractions and a panorama of signs and billboards to lure the tourist dollar. In the 50's, the National Highway Project (still the largest of any project by any nation) built four lane superhighways in a grid-like pattern across the U.S. Result: no more Route 66, to speak of. Later, Lady Bird Johnson's Highway Beautification Program virtually eliminated the signs and billboards. No more Burma Shave. And today, the only attraction left is what my windshield has for the countless bugs who don't know any better. To paraphrase the late Charles Kuralt, "It's now possible to travel clear across the country and not see anything."

I stayed in Sioux Falls which again earned the distinction (not sure by whom) as being the least expensive place to drive a car. I figured, maybe I could save a few bucks if I drove around the place for a couple of days. However, after seeing the high price of gas, the long stop lights, and the plentiful potholes, it's apparent this Heartland city is speaking with forked tongue.

Still no sign of Chandra. However, I think I spotted the "OJ" killer. He was sneaking out the back door of a Burger King (I didn't pursue him right away; I was eating, and didn't want to be bothered). Afterwards, I left by the same back door. He was nowhere to be seen, but I did notice a soiled glove on the ground. However, much to my dismay, there was a police car slowly driving through the parking lot, so I couldn't be absolutely sure how the glove got there. Oh well, I'll keep looking.

I just crossed the Mississippi, and beer still goes down my gullet counter-clockwise.

This thousand-mile stretch was, by far, the weakest link. Goodbye.