Further Tales of Corporate Irresponsibility

News today that corporate welfare queen American Insurance Group has just paid out tens of millions of dollars in bonuses to its executives.

The self-destructive insurance conglomerate has received more than $170 billion dollars over several rounds of corporate bailouts since September of 2007. Last quarter, it posted an astonishing $61.7 billion loss -- the largest in corporate history.

And yet, the very executives who surely bear some responsibility for that loss and AIG's current financial state are being rewarded with more money than many taxpayers -- who are now footing the bill -- may make in a lifetime.

AIG claims the bonus payments are contractually obligated, which makes me marvel at what must be some pretty remarkable contract terms dictating generous bonuses even in the face of catastrophic losses.

One wonders what kind of gravy these executives would be taking home if the company was actually making money.

AIG Chairman Edward Liddy -- that's his smugly satisfied face on the left -- defended the bonus payments in a snipply worded letter to Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner. "We cannot attract and retain the best and brightest talent to lead and staff the AIG businesses, which are now being operated principally on behalf of the American taxpayers - if employees believe their compensation is subject to continued and arbitrary adjustment by the U.S. Treasury."

To which I say, if this mess is what your "best and brightest" is capable of, I'm willing to fire them all and let the night-time security staff take a crack at this thing.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Ever since last Tuesday's historic election, news reporters and commentators have been enthusiastically -- one might even say eagerly -- comparing Barack Obama to Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.

And every time they do, I cringe. Because what they all seem to forget is that both of those presidencies ended tragically.

I know that "those who forget history are doomed to repeat it." But I also fear that those who constantly reference it may be subject to the same fate.

----------------------------

UPDATE: A few hours after making this post, this article hit the wires.

I suppose if John McCain had been elected president, I might be feeling some of the same sick emotions. And if this year's Democratic candidate had been white, I suppose the actions and words it reports wouldn't anger and chill me as much as they do. But still.

Dear President-Elect Obama: Please be safe. Our country desperately needs you, more than it knows.

An Open Letter to America's Distressed Homeowners

To struggling homeowners who are in danger of foreclosure and hoping for some assistance from either their lender or the government, I have some advice.

Fuck you.

Yes, I know the government is bailing out AIG and the investment banks and the mortgage lenders who caused this whole mess to begin with. I’m also aware that now the automakers – who cranked out gas-guzzlers by the millions while their CEOs and executives never imagined that oil might some day rise above $30 a barrel, yet literally made out like bandits – are also lining up to the public trough with their hands out and shit-eating grins on all their faces.

So given all that, why shouldn’t you, Mr. and Mrs. Homeowner-in-Trouble, receive some of the free money that’s suddenly being tossed out like candy from a parade?

Simple. Because this is all your fault.

If I’m not mistaken, the reason you can’t afford your house payments is because you bought a house you can’t afford. Am I right?

Now I know, that nice man or woman at the mortgage brokerage swore you were getting a great deal, and that adjustable rate mortgage you agreed to probably wouldn’t go up when its initial term expired, and even if it did it wouldn’t be that much, and even if it was that much you could always refinance and everything would be fine. Am I right?

So you went ahead and bought more house than you could afford with a mortgage that was going to do who-knows-what in a few years time. And why not? Everyone else was doing it, too, and you sure as hell couldn’t afford to look like you weren’t keeping up with the Joneses and the Smiths and the Hempstead-Heaths next door. Am I right?

And along the way you took out a home equity line of credit, because at the time your home’s value was increasing and you couldn’t afford to just let that cash value sit there and do nothing. As a matter of fact, for a while it looked like that big house of yours was going to make money for you the way pigeons produce poop. So you bought some furniture you couldn’t afford, and an expensive car, and some kick-ass vacations and probably a lot of restaurant meals that impressed the Joneses and the Smiths and the Hempstead-Heaths when you bragged about them Monday morning at work. Am I right?

But guess what? All those old clichés your parents used to repeat – things like “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” and “If everyone jumped off a bridge would you want to, too?” and “Chickens always come home to roost” – turned out to be old clichés for a reason. Because they’re true.

But you jumped off that bridge anyway, because some slick salesperson said there was a free lunch down there, and now those chickens have come home to roost.

And don’t say you were suckered into this. Guess what? Everyone in this whole world – from the bum in the gutter to the CEO atop his ivory tower – is trying to sell you something. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s going to benefit them more than you. That’s their job. Yours is keeping your eyes and ears open, and doing your homework so you’re smart enough to tell the difference.

You failed to do that.

It’s not my fault. It’s not the government’s fault. It’s your fault.

Which is why you don’t deserve a bailout.

What you do deserve is to learn a hard lesson, one that’ll be passed on to your children so they don’t grow up to be as stupid and gullible as you some day.

So fuck you.

Am I right?

Things Could Be Worse

It's been a rough week for investors, people who work for a living, retirees, Republicans and anyone who either has money or needs it.

But after considering recent events, I realized that even though things are bad, they could could be worse.

Zombies could be roaming our streets and shopping malls, for example.

And this one could be president.

Watch This One

This is Neel Kashkari, the 35-year-old former Goldman Sachs vice president who's been tapped by Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson to head up distribution of the $700 billion from the Wall Street bailout program.

All criticisms aside about Washington cronyism (Paulson once worked at Goldman Sachs as well) or foxes guarding the hen house...

Is it just me, or does dude have some crazy eyes?

Financial Terrorists

Stocks dropped all last week while Congress debated passage of the Wall Street bailout... oh, I'm sorry, economic rescue plan.

But now that $700 billion has been cleared for take-off, stocks continue to drop. As of this writing, the Dow was below 10,000 for the first time in four years.

Why?

According to a story this morning from the Associated Press, "The markets have come to the sobering realization that the Bush administration's $700 billion rescue plan won't work quickly to unfreeze the credit markets, and that many banks are still having difficulty gaining access to cash."

In other words, it took only one weekend -- coincidentally the weekend after the "rescue" plan was passed -- for the markets to come to the sobering realization that $700 billion either isn't going to be enough, or that it won't hit their balance books fast enough to avoid the catastrophe they said was imminent if they didn't get $700 billion?

And no one -- NOT ONE SINGLE WALL STREET EXECUTIVE OR GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL? -- had the foresight to see this?

With geniuses like this at the helm, it's no wonder our financial system is in shambles.

You know what? Henry Paulson, Ben Bernanke, and every other financial terrorist on Wall Street had better watch out, because it's looking like circumstances are ripe for a good old-fashioned witch burning.

My Government Bailout Plan

The news about Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae -- and now AIG -- has inspired me. I think now is the time the United States government provided me with a bailout plan.

A bit less than a year ago I left a great job to focus on writing fiction full-time. Some may have argued with the wisdom of this decision, describing it as risky or even speculative. However, times were good, I was feeling optimistic, and believed that if things worked out the upside of my actions was almost limitless.

I've since sold two short stories -- which is great! -- but the few hundred dollars I earned from them hasn't been enough to cover my expenses. (Worse yet, some publications I sent stories to did not buy them, which had a further negative impact on my earnings.) Consequently, a significant portion of my savings is now gone and the truth is that I simply cannot continue writing full-time without some assistance from the government.

Some may blame my current circumstances on poor management. To them I say, no one could have predicted the dilemma I now face and, frankly, I consider it to be one of those "once in a century" things that just can't be helped. Would more or less regulation have made a difference? I believe it would take a federal commission, several years and a great deal of taxpayer money to get to the bottom of it all.

However, it would take only $1 million dollars for me to continue my current operations. While that is a lot of money, let me remind you that it will be used to keep hard-working Americans -- such as the folks at my mortgage holder, the utility and credit card companies, the grocery store and gas station -- employed. I might even find myself in a position to create jobs with that kind of cash on hand. I think it would be nice to have a cleaning lady come in once or twice a week, and I've been wanting to update our kitchen and bathroom for the longest time. Withholding that million dollars -- and allowing me to go under -- would only end up hurting more people in the end.

I, too, am "too big to fail."

Religious Sexcapades in Texas

Yesterday, after calling a family violence hotline with a borrowed cell phone, a pregnant 16-year-old girl escaped from the Yearning for Zion Ranch of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Eldorado, Texas.

It's a gleaming, well-ordered place where the church members made cheese and cement to support their lifestyle, and committed some bizarre atrocities in the name of God.

The girl is one of 50-year-old Dale Barlow's seven wives, and the story she's telling authorities -- of captivity, polygamy, and physical and sexual abuse at the hands of older men -- is nothing less than shocking.

Raised in the church compound her entire life, the girl was told by church elders that she'd be forced to cut her hair, wear make-up and have sex with different men in the outside world. But apparently, those options became less horrifying to her than continuing to live in a closed society where she was already a mother at 16 and routinely beaten by her spiritual husband while his other wives looked on.

I'm rarely surprised by the lengths to which certain religions will go in order to isolate themselves from the rest of the world, and the rites they observe as part of their worship. But I'm endlessly fascinated by how often those same religions will organize themselves so that men can enjoy sex with multiple, underage women. It's like the guys all got together and decided the answer to "What would Jesus do?" is "He'd hit that."

The compound was raided yesterday. Authorities removed 416 children, many of which were unable to identify their biological parents, and have placed them into protective custory. Nearly 140 women have left on their own. You can bet all of them have been traumatized, are traumatized now, and will be traumatized for some time by their experiences.

Absolut Bad Judgment

This is the ad that's had Absolut vodka in a pot of hot water the past few days and has some groups calling for a boycott.

Though the ad was intended only for Mexico (curious that it used English in that case), Absolut has been playing defense to an outraged chorus since it reached American eyes.

An Absolut spokesperson said of the ad, "In no way was it meant to offend or disparage, nor does it advocate an altering of borders, nor does it lend support to any anti-American sentiment, nor does it reflect immigration issues."

And yet, it does all those things so well.

What's horrifying here? First, one or several people at Absolut's Mexican ad agency -- Teran/TBWA -- are probably packing their desks at this very moment. Probably a couple in Absolut's marketing department, too. I can't really feel sorry for them. How would this ad go over if the borders were Israel and Palestine? Or Germany overtaking Europe? You can bet this one isn't going into anyone's portfolio, all arguments about the value of free publicity aside.

Second, even after offering a sincere and heartfelt apology, I believe Absolut can look forward to a decreased market share in the U.S. for some time to come. I don't think the fat lady's anywhere near singing with this one just yet.

And finally, Absolut and its parent company was recently sold to French spirit maker Pernod Ricard SA, under a deal reached just last week! Bet they're glad to have this one in their portfolio, too.

But what the hell do I care? I'm a Smirnoff man myself.

Day 16 - Ogden, UT to Denver, CO

Big Truck Country

Dick Cheney is from Wyoming, and this should have been my first clue that I would neither feel welcome or enjoy my time there, even if I was just driving through it. But I had no idea it would go down as the single worst driving experience of my 4000-mile journey.

Days earlier, when I told people at World Horror that I'd be driving from Salt Lake City to Denver, they all recommended taking I-70 east, through Utah, instead of I-80, through Wyoming. But I'm an Iowa boy, and grew up with I-80, so I felt I could trust it.

Southern Wyoming borrows a lot of charm from northern Utah, but once those first 30 miles or so are in your rearview mirror, it takes on a whole other feel.

The first indication were the great plumes of smoke or steam I saw rising off in the distance. They looked like huge fires, burning somewhere just past the horizon, but are turned out to be a cluster of factories.

Second, it seems Wyoming doesn't believe in plowing its roads, because even though it had snowed two days earlier, the interstate in Wyoming was covered in snow and ice and sand and dirt.

Third, semi-trucks outnumber regular cars by about 20:1 on this stretch of road. Now I know, from all the billboards I've seen on this trip, that "Trucks bring good things!" -- things from faraway places where wages are lower, things that are vital to our always-low-prices, disposable culture and unsustainable way of life. And I know semi-drivers are regular people just like you and me who have a job to do and only want to get it done so that they can go home to their fat wives and ugly children.

But the trucks in Wyoming were some of the worst-behaved road bullies I've ever encountered. Sometimes they passed me going 80 miles an hour; at others they pulled out in front of me with no warning and drove just 45. And they traveled together in packs of 40 or 50 at a time, going down the road in long, road-hogging lines, looking like the world's fastest, ugliest parade.

And every time I found myself beside or behind one of these trucks, its tires threw up great sprays of the aforementioned snow and ice and sand and dirt, along with a few rocks. Believe me, this shit will mess up your car and leave its hood looking like the surface of the moon.

All of this goes on for about 350 miles, leading up to and away from the continental divide. It's a white-knuckled driving adventure not for the faint of heart. Or me. Ever, ever again. If I ever head west again, I will drive around Wyoming. It was that bad.

On the bright side, however, I did find a state to hate more than Texas.

A few miles past Laramie -- which is a gray, muddy pit populated by people who seem well adapted to the environment -- I turned on to I-25, south to Denver. Almost immediately, the sky and road cleared, and from there it was just a couple hours more to the home of my former college roommate, Daren, and his wife, Becky.

Daren and Becky were great hosts, and provided me with a terrific meal along with no small amount of vodka, which I definitely needed. Unfortunately, I got sick the next morning -- the achy, icky, sore throat, stuffy nose kind of sick. Not wanting to pass it on to them, I left to head further east.

Truth be told, I was more than a little homesick as well, and thought I might be able to drive the thousand miles between me and Chicago in one day. But this did not happen.

Day 15 - Ogden and Park City, UT

Ultra Utah

Years ago in Chicago there used to be a TV ad for an Indiana amusement park. At the end, the fun-loving crow who'd guided viewers through all the adventures awaiting them would alight next to the park's logo, lean against it, and say, "There's more to Indiana than corn!"

Which is my roundabout way of saying there's more to Utah than what I've already discussed.

After vacating the World Horror premises, I drove pal John Hornor Jacobs to the airport, then continued north to Ogden, where a former (I won't use the word "old" in order to protect both of our dignities) college roommate currently lives.

Let me just say I love me some Scottie Barnard. His mom, Karen -- who also lives in Ogden -- is a lovely person as well. And they were delightful hosts during the 36 hours or so I stayed with them in their home nestled beneath the mountains.

Sunday night they treated to me to a great dinner at a local barbecue chain called Good Wood, and on Monday Scott took the wheel to deliver a custom tour.

First stop, the SLC Public Library, an incredible public space designed by Moshe Safdie, architect of the still amazing Habitat 67 in Montreal. The building, with its dizzying atrium and gravity-defying staircases is filled with light and air, and brings to mind some of the other high-flown adventures I've encountered on this trip.

I love that it's a contemporary building. Seeing it makes me grieve anew the opportunity Chicago threw away when it chose Thomas Beeby's design for our own new main library back in the 1990s. Whereas Chicago's library purposefully looked back to designs from the previous hundred years for inspiration, Salt Lake City obviously has its eye on the future.

That doesn't mean there's no room for cozy touches, like this trio of fireplaces that occupy the far corner of all the floors and resemble a column of flame when viewed from the exterior. While we were there, Scott said a bomb was set off a bomb at this spot in the library a few years ago.

The library is designed so that the more public -- and noisy -- areas are clustered on the lower floors, so that the building grows more peaceful and quiet as you reach the higher levels. It even has a small shopping center nestled on its ground floor that extends out onto the plaza surrounding the building's back area.

While the main library occupies a soaring space, Safdie wisely located the children's section in an intimate area of the basement. Though the children's section can be opened to the full height of the atrium above, it can also be closed off by a series of fabric panels, shown here. (When I asked how the panels were moved back and forth, thinking there was some mechanism there I couldn't detect, the librarian wryly told me it was done with a pole. Judging from her expression, I'm guessing it's not her favorite part of the job.)

The library's front arched wall continues outside the building, to create an elevated walking path to and from the plaza that was, unfortunately or not, closed that day due to snow. But here's a pic of Scott posing in front of it just the same.

Note Scott's clothing for just a moment, and let me comment on an odd Utah phenomenon: when it's cold, it's not really cold. Not like it gets in Chicago. Sure, it's crisp, the way apple cider and fall leaves can be crisp, but the chill doesn't cut down to the bone the way it does here. Everyone I asked about it credited the mountains and Utah's dry air, then went on a tear about how much lotion they go through in the course of a week. Still, it seems a small price to pay for the privilege of walking around in a flannel shirt when the thermometer swears it's only 37 degrees. But I digress.

Here's a professionally taken picture of the back of the library, showing it off to better advantage than I ever could. Well done, Salt Lake City!

From here, it was on to Park City, home of the Sundance Film Festival and an odd race of blonde cougars in down vests and Ugg boots that stalk the city streets. It was Scott who pointed out that all the women in Park City look alike, and he was right. I should have taken a picture or two, but was just too struck by their sun- and snow-kissed uniformity to even think of pulling out my camera.

But Park City is great, and after walking up and down its small but obviously well-moneyed strip, I can imagine how the Hollywood types eat it up as some exotic outpost. In some ways, it reminded me of Galena, Illinois, another hilly, former mining town that has since been turned into an historic outdoor mall.

Yeah, we did some shopping, and when it was done we returned, tired but happy, to Ogden. Scott's mom went to see her beloved Utah Jazz play, and Scott and I made dinner and watched Jackass 2.5 on demand. It was almost like being at home, something I was beginning to miss something fierce.

The next day I planned to make the drive to Denver to see another former college roommate. But I had a big adventure awaiting me throughout Wyoming first. One I wasn't going to enjoy.

Day 9 - Cedar City, UT to Salt Lake City, UT

The Mormons
I don't remember anything about the drive to Salt Lake City. But I remember touring the Mormon Temple grounds once we got there.

If you crossed a really devout Christian church with a very successful corporation, you'd end up with the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Don't kid yourself that the Mormons are a glassy-eyed bunch of cultists who can't chew gum and praise Jesus at the same time. These people have their act -- collectively and individually -- together. They're smart and powerful and have a lot of money behind their cause and are more than likely staunch Republicans, too.

Which can put a couple of middle-aged alterna-lifestylers from Chicago who are just touring Temple Square for laffs a bit on edge.

Everyone was nice. Nothing was out of place. Everything worked. The men all wear suits and white suits and ties; the women all dress just as conservatively. All the buildings had video screens and interactive exhibits and audiovisual delights everywhere you looked. It was all religious, but high-tech and a bit futuristic, like I've always imagined the Republic of Gilead is in Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.

Visitors are encouraged -- by every employee -- to take the guided tour, and Jonathan and I soon found ourselves starting a chaperoned walk about the grounds.

First stop, the just-a-few-years-old Convention Center, which is where the Church holds it regular big meetings. This picture is just a small slice of it. The Center has 21,000 seats, and I think one of our guides said it was the largest auditorium in North America. A little fact-checking could verify that statement, but I do not doubt the truth. The place is enormous, and busts and paintings of Bible scenes and Church notables are everywhere.

Next stop is the North Visitors center, where sightseers are walked up a spiral ramp leading to a large domed room. A white statue of Jesus stands in the center, the dome around and above him painted with pictures of the Earth and Moon, planets and galaxies and, inexplicably, little fluffy clouds. It's Jesus in Space.

This is where the tour -- which up to this point was pretty low-pressure on the sales front -- got serious. We were seated on benches looking up at Jesus. Our guides kindly asked us to refrain from taking pictures and to open our hearts to a special message from Christ -- then kindly interrupted one woman who was too busy taking pictures to hear what they'd just said.

Then the lights dimmed and Jesus spoke. I don't remember exactly what He said. His voice boomed out from hidden speakers with a message of love and family, and the whole time I was sure the Mormons were beaming a secret signal beneath the audio, something I'd be powerless to resist.

Then it was over and the lights came back up, and instead of filing all of us into a giant processing center for debriefing and assignment of our new identities, we were escorted back down the ramp without further incident. We saw the Tabernacle, where the Choir lives, and then received cards onto which we could write our addresses and phone number, or those of our enemies.

And then it was done.

Jonathan and I looked around for a couple hours more. Each of us had a somewhat probing question about the Mormon faith. Jonathan's had something to do with what I think he called the apostolic division; I wanted to know what's up with the magic underwear. But each time we worked up our nerve to ask someone, something would happen to divert their attention. Once, one of our guides ran into some people she hadn't seen in years. Another time, the Elder I'd just introduced myself to had to answer the phone. It was like God knew we were both troublemakers and wasn't having any of it.

One of the creepiest things about it for me were seeing these groups of men -- all in suits and ties and white shirts -- participating in what looked like very private conversations. Some were young, some were middle-aged or older, but all of them were so clean cut they looked like you could eat off them. It was a bit like walking past the five biggest executives at the company you work for as they discuss the issues right after a big meeting -- you get the feeling they're making decisions that will affect your future and yet, somehow, it's still none of your business.

The Mormon Church is interesting. On the whole, they're as Christian as they come, no question there. I'm all for their support of the family (as far as what I know about it, which isn't much) and I think there's something fascinating about a uniquely American religion with its roots in the pioneering spirit and the kind of determination it took to settle this great land.

Yeah, there are some things that don't quite make sense. The golden book from which Joseph Smith translated the Book of Mormon conveniently disappeared, along with his cohort in the Church's founding. (He later came back, yet no one really talks about him much.) There's the whole alcohol/caffeine thing and the special garments.

But these things aren't that different from Buddha finding enlightenment under a tree or Moses parting the Red Sea. They're things you have to take on faith, and that, it seems, is the whole point to begin with.

Day 8 - Flagstaff, AZ to Cedar City, UT

Don't Look Down

I've mentioned before my fear of heights -- just the other day as a matter of fact! -- but today's post requires that I belabor this just a bit more.

People who aren't afraid of heights can't fathom the fears of those who are. Just as someone who thinks shrimp are delicious in every form would never believe that the little creatures are really just the cockroaches of the sea. This difference keeps the world interesting, and without it -- if everyone shared the same fears -- the world would be a whole lot less scary for everyone.

So it was with great surprise that I discovered the Grand Canyon is no place for someone with a fear of heights.

I've seen photographs of and television shows about the Grand Canyon for as long as I've been alive; even more so as I've been preparing for this trip over the last couple years. I was always struck by its grandeur and majesty and sheer geological beauty. But for some reason, those photos taken from one of the rims, depicting the canyon's vast depth and length and breadth, never caused my breath to catch in my throat or my bowels to feel loose.

Which is exactly what happened 60 seconds after arriving at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Those photos and television shows don't do it justice. To stand in front of the canyon is to witness a tiny, infinitesimal part of the universe's enormity opening up before you, and to feel your true insignificance in response to it.

For some of us, that can be truly horrifying.

For others, not so much.

Whereas I had to turn away, my traveling companion, Jonathan, seemed to be drawn toward the canyon. He was happy to jump up on the low stone retaining walls that stood between us and oblivion as though teetering on the brink of nothingness was the most natural and comfortable thing in the world.

(Jonathan has sometimes commented, in response to my tendency to feel blue, on how comfortable I am "staring into the abyss." Funny that when confronted with the real thing I find myself unable to face it.)

Worse were the other people, those who would hike a trail down to a rock ledge and perch on it. Do you see them out there, perched on the edge of nothingness? Or the people who were blithely allowing their children to scamper and crawl on and over every fence and barrier. It's like the Grand Canyon was one of those inflated bouncing tents you see at kids' birthday parties, with a cushy pillow lining at the bottom.

In the great canyon's defense, I have to say that it is magnificent, awe-inspiring, breath-taking and stunning. I would love to see it from the floor, though I surely couldn't get down there by foot or on the back of a burro. Nothing short of being delivered to the canyon floor in the safety of a Life-Flite helicopter would do.

We spent a couple hours at the canyon, peering out of it from various viewpoints, and if that had been the end of my experience with heights that day I would have been happy. But as the saying goes, we had miles to go before we slept, so we took off across Arizona and on to Utah.

Incredible landscape along the way. Northern Arizona and southern Utah have incredible rock formations, hills and mountains and valleys and canyons. There's something amazing around every bend in the road. It's also very sparsely populated, and the few little towns that there are along the way are strange-looking affairs: a random scattering of little houses with almost no organization, as though someone just threw down a dozen or so houses in the middle of the land.

Our stopping point for the day was Cedar City, Utah, and to get there we had to take a twisting mountain pass that -- you guessed it -- freaked me out. This photo doesn't do the landscape justice either. Even the most casual reader of this blog should know by now how that made me feel. But we made it. And I've never been so happy to be inside the room of a Motel 6 in my life.

Or to drink a glass or two of Wild Turkey.

Day 7 - Flagstaff, AZ

Hole in the Ground

Flagstaff, Arizona is situated between two famous geological attractions. To the east, Meteor Crater; to the north, the Grand Canyon.

We came to see both.

And this is where things started getting scary for me.

I'm a Discovery/History/National Geographic/Learning Channel nerd, and have seen more shows on meteors hitting the earth than probably anyone on earth, with the exception of my traveling companion, Jonathan. And nearly every "meteors-have-hit-the-earth-before-and-will-again" show includes a bit about Meteor Crater.

Meteor Crater was formed around 50,000 years ago when a meteor approximately 150 feet across slammed into the earth at some 26,000 miles an hour. And after seeing so many geologists and astronomers wander its impressive rim and talk about its wonders, of course I wanted to see it for myself.

What I didn't think about every time I saw Meteor Crater on television is that I'm afraid of heights. Not just "I don't like heights" afraid, but sweating, trembling, anxiety-attack afraid. And that Meteor Crater is essentially a very big, very deep hole in the ground, and no place for someone with acrophobia.

We took a fair amount of pictures and even some video while we there, and none of them do the crater justice. Especially if walking up to its edge and looking down into its depths makes you feel the least bit dizzy or panicked, like it does me. But this will have to do.

Even in person, the crater doesn't look as large as it truly is. It's 550 feet deep -- deep enough to bring the roof of a 55-story building even with the rim. And the bottom of the crater is large enough to hold 20 football fields. That's big. And really, really scary if you're me.

As part of our tour, we hiked a trail that goes about 1/2 mile around the rim. This picture doesn't show it, but I was actually leaning away from the crater. I was that freaked out by it.

Toward the end of the hike, the group followed a more narrow trail that led into the crater a little bit. It was too much for me, and I had to hang back while the rest of the group went on. And probably made fun of me.

We spent the rest of the day in Flagstaff relaxing and doing laundry and getting ready to see the Grand Canyon the next day. Little did I know, my troubles were just beginning.

Day 6 - Albuquerque, NM to Flagstaff, AZ

Desert Driving

Aside from movies and Roadrunner cartoons, I've never seen the desert. I've always wanted to though, ever since an astrologer told me in 1984 or '85 that I'd be happiest there. (It hasn't happened yet. I've lived in Chicago since 1986.)

But this isn't quite what I was expecting. Yeah, it looks pretty dry and barren, but where are the dramatic rock formations? The incredible colors? Though I'm hardly an expert, this is more like what I would call scrubland than desert.

But if you're making your way from Albuquerque to Flagstaff, this is the desert you get. Seemingly endless miles and miles of it. You start to understand just how big this country is, how awed and courageous the pioneers must have been when they confronted it, and how isolated the modern-day people who live in the few towns along the way must feel.

As we neared Flagstaff, things did start to change. Mountains -- or what passes for them here -- started to appear in the distance. And every so often we'd get an interesting rock formation like this one. You take what you get on this stretch of the road, and we were happy for them.

On the whole, however, there are long and uninterrupted stretches of scrubland/desert. If you see a roadside attraction that looks the least bit interesting -- like this one -- you stop and admire whatever it has to offer. Like we did.


And if that roadside attraction has wooden reproductions of teepees where you can sit Indian style and have your picture taken, all the better. That's Jonathan, my traveling companion, getting into the Southwestern spirit.

It's this unrelieved desert driving that makes Gallup, New Mexico so appealing to the weary traveler, and the El Rancho motel and restaurant such a tempting place to stop.

Built in 1937, the El Rancho was one of the places to stop during Route 66's heyday, and was a frequent host to many movie stars of the time -- a fact the El Rancho is justifiably proud of and still celebrates with many autographed photos of the greats.

The place has been meticulously maintained and in addition to the hotel offers a restaurant, gift store and incredible two-story lobby that looks just like what you'd imagine a "wilderness hotel" lobby would look like. Rough-hewn beams make up the staircase and railings, animal heads and Indian blankets decorate the walls, lodge-like furnishings are everywhere.

We only have one picture of the lobby, and unfortunately it's this one. But you get the idea.

There's only one other major Route 66 stop on the way to Flagstaff: the Jackrabbit Trading Post. When Route 66 was hoppin', it wasn't unusual to see signs for the Jackrabbit for miles and miles before you actually got to it.

In this way, the Jackrabbit is sort of the Route 66 Wall Drug, and by the time you finally get to it and this sign appears on the road, you're pretty much powerless to to do anything other than stop and get a look.

And maybe an embarrassing picture of yourself -- paunch and all -- riding that big fiberglass rabbit out in front of the store. It was Easter Sunday when we drove by, and the Jackrabbit was, not surprisingly, closed. Too bad. We could have used some water and authentic turquoise jewelery and kachina dolls at this point in the trip. We were still quite a ways from Flagstaff.

Day 5 - Elk City, OK to Albuquerque, NM

The Drive-Bys

Things started getting weird as we neared the Texas border.

Erick, Oklahoma is the last town in Oklahoma and a well-known stop along Route 66, mainly because of the Sandhills Curiosity Shop and its owner/operators, The Mediocre Music Makers. Legend has it if you stop by during business hours the MMMs will welcome you to Erick and serenade you with songs. But it wasn't quite eight in the morning when we got there, and the shop was closed and the MMMs were no where to be seen.

Without the MMMs, Erick didn't present itself as an especially friendly place. We got coffee in a convenience store in town, and were greeted by a scowling group of old men in bib jeans and trucker caps, none of it worn ironically.

We saw what remains of the West Winds Motel on the outskirts of Erick, and because I was still charmed by American Ruins at this point in the trip, we stopped to take pictures of it. The place was incredible -- still in relatively good shape, but abandoned. There was a beautiful old car parked in one of the car ports next to a cabin. It was both frozen in time and ravaged by it.

This was the house next door, and that should have been my hint that trouble was on the way. Before long a mean old dog started barking at me, and then a guy came out of the house and yelled at me for being on his property. I believe a comment was made about "you people and your damn pictures." I quickly apologized and we left Erick, foolishly hoping that Texas would be better.

Shamrock is just over the state line, and we were greeted there by another snarling, barking dog. This one ran out onto the highway and nearly lost his life under the tires of my PT Cruiser. A typical Texas welcome, I suppose.

Shamrock is home to the U Drop Inn, another one of Route 66's legendary stops. The Art Deco building housed a gas station and a restaurant. It was recently refurbished and Shamrock did a great job of it, but the place seemed to be abandoned despite that. Maybe it's waiting for the busy season. Or maybe the rehab didn't do the trick after all.

Here's a view of the diner. Can you believe this was taken from outside, through a window? We would have gladly had breakfast here, but had to settle for the McDonald's on the other side of town. There were many scowling men in bib jeans and trucker hats there, too. By the time I finished up by McSkillet Burrito, we were definitely feeling unwelcome, and sorry that we still had to drive through the rest of Texas.

We decided to get through Texas as quickly as possible, seeing as how the state didn't seem to be welcoming us that warmly and that I've never been a fan of the state. They say everything is big in Texas, and I believe that includes the jerks as well.

Amarillo has two well-known Route 66 stops, the Big Texan steakhouse and the Cadillac Ranch. I was looking forward to the Big Texan, because I was hungry for a steak, but we couldn't find it. And the Cadillac Ranch (where a line of old Cadillacs have been half-buried in the ground) was on the other side of the highway. But we did find this one great old sign. I'm sure Amarillo has many other charming sights, but we didn't see them.

Adrian, Texas is one of two places along Route 66 that boast of being the midpoint between Chicago and Los Angeles. I can't remember what the first one is called, but the second (as you travel west) is in Adrian. The Midpoint Cafe is famous for its "ugly crust" pies, and we stopped there for a piece. The pie was good enough, but the crust was not particularly ugly. No one explained it to me and I wasn't in the mood to ask.

There's a sign outside the cafe showing the miles to Los Angeles and Chicago. I'm sure many people get their picture taken next to it, just like I did. It's the law.

Once we left Adrian, the landscape started to change. I mean, really change. I've never been to the American Southwest and all along I'd been looking forward to seeing the desert. All through Missouri, Oklahoma and Texas things didn't seem that different. Then, suddenly, everything did seem different.

Unfortunately, I do not have pictures of this.

Tucumcari, New Mexico is a charming little town with a lot of Route 66 lore to it. The Tepee Curio Shop is one famous place on the way, and if you're looking for sterling silver and turquoise jewelry, kachina dolls, serapes and Route 66 shot glasses sold with an air of indifference, this is your place.

Tucumcari is also home to many old Route 66 motels -- most of them, sadly, closed up -- and one that's still managing to make a go of it.

The Blue Swallow not only looks good from the street, it's cute when you get close up, too, something of a rarity for some of these places. I wish we'd been situated better in our trip so that we could have stopped and stayed the night here. The owners seem like nice people who get a kick out of maintaining an important piece of Route 66 history and sharing it with like-minded travelers. But the road called. We wanted to get to Albuquerque, New Mexico before the day was done, and so, after a fair amount of himming and hawing, we left Tucumcari and continued our drive west. Still, leaving it behind felt like a betrayal of everything we made the trip for.

We've tried to follow Route 66 as much as possible during this trip, but it can sometimes be a frustrating experience. The road officially no longer exists, though each state has made varying efforts to keep it signed for adventurous travelers like us. Still, there are times when things simply stop and you find yourself some place like this, forced to backtrack and, more often than you'd like, follow the Interstate for a while.

One of the strangest things we saw on this trip happened somewhere between Tucumcari and Albuquerque. We were driving along the Interstate when we saw something that looked from the rear like a Chicago Transit Authority bus. A few moments later we were shocked to find out that it actually was CTA bus. What is was doing here we have no idea. (But I'm putting in a call to the CTA to find out exactly what was going on.) Though people often misuse the word "surreal," this is one occasion when the word fits. This is exactly the same type of bus Chicagoans see trundling up and down the streets of Chicago, usually at a snail's pace and packed with unhappy commuters. To see it empty and moving at 65 miles an hour, in the middle of the New Mexico desert, was nothing short of bizarre.

Hours later we found ourselves in Albuquerque, which was definitely one of the most attractive cities we've seen on the Route. We could have spent days here and still not seen and appreciated it all.

Unfortunately, by the time we got here we were tired and cranky and needed to find a hotel and weren't in the mood to stop and take any photos regardless of how great this sign was or how charming that little motel appeared. This is a real shame, because Albuquerque was packed with great old signs and charming little motels and diners and all manner of other attractions.

I admit, cooler heads should have prevailed. I should have put on the brakes and taken more photos, and if I had it to do over again we would have. But we didn't. My bad. Another regret for something missed along a road that could be filled with them. There's that much stuff to see.