On the way out from LAX: Like a fucking idiot, I wore steel-toed shoes to the airport. "Beep," said the X-Ray machine. "Take your shoes off and put them through the machine, miss," said the security lady. "Glare," said the National Guard, silently. "Sigh," said I.

Once we got on the road, we discovered that in Minnesota, there is an actual gas station and mini mart called "Pump and Munch."

In Iowa: We stopped at a greasy spoon with the word "FOOD" printed simply on its roof. The salt and pepper shakers featured covered wagons. Grilled cheese sandwiches were $1.75. In a cooler, there was some sort of frozen orange confection. It looked like a big hunk of sherbet on a stick, but upon closer examination, we determined that they were supposed to look like Hershey's Kisses, only large. And orange.

In Iowa, we also started to spot a chain of establishments called—I'm totally serious—"Kum & Go." Lor and I joked about the other names that people in that brainstorming session must have rejected: "How about 'Get Off and Take Off'?" "Nah... too long." Indeed, we saw many fabulous signs (not just in Iowa), including:

"Hope: 1 Mile."
"Friend: Exit 369."
"No Name: Next Exit."

We ended up settling down for the evening in Lincoln, Nebraska. We attempted to head out for a beer, but found that the lounge across the street was closed (it was about 11:30 by this point). In fact, all of the bars and liquor stores around our hotel room seemed to be closed. However, one place was open: Doctor John's 24-Hour Sex Shop, a veritable novelty palace. After checking our identification to make sure we were old enough to browse around (ha ha ha!), the shopmistress quite helpfully pointed us in the direction of the vinyl nurse outfits and gave us directions to the nearest bar (of the sports variety, as it turns out) that stayed open past midnight.

On our way out, another shop employee let us check out the store's signature ambulance, which was painted, noveltied-out, and genuinely cool. We then headed down Cornhusker Street (really) to the sports bar for a beer. It was already nearly last call when we discovered a free Internet kiosk in the bar, so we hopped on for a quick email and LJ check.

After returning to our room, we slept the sleep of the sleepy. When we headed out for breakfast the next morning, Lorien and I ended up in a conversation about the difference between regular bastards and "special bastards." This conversation did not endear us to the restaurant's other patrons. Regular bastards, as you no doubt know, are people born out of wedlock. "Special bastards," on the other hand, are people who are born out of wedlock, but whose parents later marry. I am, in fact, a special bastard.

At one point, Lor asked, "Well, what do they call you if you're born out of wedlock, but then your parents later marry, and then they get divorced, but later marry once again? A bastard with honors? A bastard with distinction?"

"Bastard cum laude!" I proclaimed, thus earning me a particularly baleful evil eye. In retrospect, I'm guessing the woman who tried to turn me to stone with her gaze had no idea what "cum laude" means. Of course, it's also possible that she just didn't want a side of bastard with her hotcakes.

It was shortly after this conversation that we were hit with inspiration. People throughout the midwest had been looking at us with thinly-veiled suspicion—you could just see "they're not from around these parts" running through their brains—and we decided that we should embrace this opportunity to make an impression. This impression came in the form of signs posted in gas stations across Nebraska, Colorado, and Utah. The signs read simply:

We thought that the chances anyone in Utah would get it were slim, but we posted them anyway.

Soon after the inspiration hit, so did the rain. It didn't last long, and it washed the little bug splatters off the windshield. We forged on. Going through Denver at rush hour wasn't much fun—the blind spots on the truck are quite large, and changing lanes in heavy traffic is difficult when people tailgate. However, we got a bit of a break just past Denver in Golden, where we stopped for dinner. When I ordered a drink, I couldn't have anticipated that the glass would be damn near the size of my head, and it became clear that walking around for a bit would be a good idea. We did, and it was good to move with our actual legs.

As we stopped to refuel before getting back on the road, I pulled off a particularly smooth maneuver in the Penske truck. I then started to get cocky. "I'm such a badass in this truck," I declared. "I'm Truckmaster T."

And then we hit the blizzard in Vail. We had been idly wondering why road crews had been spraying down the highway with some creepy-looking substance, but their actions would shortly make sense. We found ourselves on a very icy surface with bona fide snowbanks, and soon, the snow started coming down hard. I was no longer Truckmaster T. I was Chumptrucker C., totally out of my depth and saying things like, "I live in Orange County. Snow just doesn't happen there. I don't drive in snow. And before I lived in Orange County, I lived in Seattle. It snows there every year, but people are afraid of it. When it snows in Seattle, people just cancel shit until it stops snowing. Every day is a 'snow day.' Moreover, I really don't do 'truck in snow.' What I normally don't do in snow is a Corolla. A little, itty, bitty, 1993 Corolla."

And then we were through it. I was almost sad when it stopped, because with the snow coming at our windshield so fast, it looked very much like we were in the mothership at warp speed, but I got over my semi-disappointment quickly.

We had decided on Grand Junction as our goal destination for the evening, and we made it there a little before midnight. We pulled into a Best Western, congratulated ourselves on our hardcore mileage for the day (about 850), and then settled in for some wine, some Xena (it was very brain-level appropriate), some cigarettes, and some quality time with our blankets.