Do not take the I-10. For the first 50 miles or so out of San Antone, it was lovely and interesting, and there was no litter. But then there were six hours of ugly, the women at what few truck stops exist were mean, and the cigarettes were $4 (but that might have been the price just for us). Texas was a bust, man. Even the truckers rarely waved back. And were there cowboys? No, there were not.
We slept in actual beds in Las Cruces, New Mexico, having hauled ass from Nashville in only 36 hours. In the a.m., heading west, we began a freeway relationship with John, a longhaired cutie from Fox Studios, complete with lipstick digits on the passenger window. In Tucson, Roxy took him shoe shopping while I hit a Kinko's (you can always find one near a college) and typed this up, a day past deadline but a day ahead of schedule on the road. Tonight: Palm Springs or Barstow for New Year's Eve; y'all will know when I know.