Greetings from a motel on the outskirts of Tulsa.
It is with great regret that I must report that we did not visit the J. J. Hawes Grain Elevator Museum in Illinois. Instead we stopped at what was surely the crustiest McDonalds in the state, if not the whole nation. We had chosen it specially for the presumed-to-be-sparkling bathrooms, so this was a real blow to our illusions.
When we arrived, there was a sign up saying that the bathroom was closed for cleaning, but judging by what I encountered after the sign went away, their janitor robot got stuck on "Filthify" instead of "Sterilize." We had a lovely picnic on a bit of grass outside.
Here you see Nemo as a prisoner of conscience. I believe we will be hearing from Amnesty International shortly.
Missouri certainly has a lot of roadside adult superstores. One (at least) is conveniently located right next to a roadside church. I hope the proprietors have wacky adventures together. Also in Missouri, we shared a scrap of roadside rest area with a woman and her giant grey poodle. The poodle had bows on its ears.
"Look, Jane, it's Missouruh," Steve said.
I've remembered that my favorite thing about long road trips is the opportunity to engage in hours and hours and hours of amiable conversation about nothing. Today alone we have covered Nancy Sinatra, the best kind of pie, genderqueerness, Pope John Paul II, where to draw the line between faithful pronunciation of the names of states and dialect caricature, the plot of Carousel, bald eagles (as emblem of the United States, as emblem of the Order of the Cincinnati, and in falconry), stupid villains in Batman, and the world's largest rocking chair.
Tomorrow's my birthday! I will celebrate it by being old and eating the leftovers of this terrible pizza we just ordered. I think it might be the best one yet.