Global Position

As Wookie and the Baby (the Singstar Evangelists, also known as us) fly through the country in the Millennium Dolphin, the tootsie roll trucks, discount cheese curds, idiotically proprietary wi-fi parking lots, .50 diapers on the Mississippi, towns with names like Kickapoo and Colona, Stations of the Cross motor parks, futile searches for palatable coffee, spontaneous games like “How would you sexually harass each state?” (For Nebraska- I don’t care that you’re flat), bottom-feeding spackle and sprawl that incite thoughts of ending it all, kind and unhealthy citizens of Normal, Illinois who don’t know how to park their minivan, bricks of eventless meatloaf and the antidotal bag of Broccoli from Shnucks Supermarket, anti-meth billboards (No one thinks they will try to tear off their own skin. Meth with change that.), natural variation and synthetic sameness, Cheyanne’s sea of Port-o-potty’s (decommissioned? A sort of modular toilet retirement community?) the winding stretches of Utah and thinking about friendships we’ll continue to tend to like an inherited garden we didn’t ask for, truck stops with bottles of urine in their trash cans and nothing smaller than a 20 ounce cup, the shift from cardinals to cowboys, silos to windmills, the shwagtastic restaurants where we get that nervous feeling that they won’t understand us, and the embarrassment of America exposing itself to us one bobble-headed James Brown at a time all feed us a bit more than we can earnestly digest in this sitting. And it’s a lot of sitting. Is it possible to have your GPS and your Iphone and your road signs and your measured exits and not be lost and still have no clue where on earth you are?