Like Lewis without the Clark... and late

The Tin Man's a lot of things - oh, is he ever - and dammit if prompt isn't one of them.

As all of you should know, I drove Blue Steel, my trusty Japanese stallion, cross-country a couple of weeks ago - trading a nice, comfy, paycheck-ful Chapel Hill life for a warm, sunny, fiscally idiotic Los Angeles existence. And believe me, it's all those things. Definitely warm. Definitely sunny. And moldy bread's a matter of opinion.

Anyway, long story short, I had the great idea of preserving the four-day drive for posterity by writing it up. You know, the funny things. The sad things. The oh-my-God-I'm-in-Texas-just-keep-driving things. To that end, I took copious notes along the way, proving that steering with your knees for hours at a time is totally as cool as it sounds.

Thing is, I got to LA and forgot my kickass plan. And now, a month later, I forgot where I put my notes.

But it's no matter, for I'm strappingly young and stacked with memory. So here, for your reading enjoyment, are the 70 mph, strictly-through-the-windshield highlights. If you're a minor, don't worry - they're excruciatingly G-rated.

Day 1 - Rabun Gap, Ga., to Little Rock, Ark.

• "But Tin Man, why start in Georgia?" Because, faithful reader, that's where Tin Folks live - just across the N.C.-Ga. line. Tin Mom cried as I pulled out of the driveway - was it because her baby bird was spreading his wings toward the horizon, or because he'd left her his bank account number "just in case"? Only time will tell.
• Tennessee is entirely too long. Slightly in its favor is that, after the halfway point, all the billboards advertise either toll-free prayer or vasectomies. God's country.
• Arkansas is either the world's leading producer of soy beans or I need to learn something about plants.
• I passed Toad Suck, Ark., as fast as Blue Steel would take me. I don't wanna know.
  

Day 2 - Little Rock, Ark., to Amarillo, Tx.

• Nothing.
• Hey, dead chinchilla. Hey, Oklahoma.
• Not a damn thing.
• Crosses galore, lest I forget where I am.
• Amarillo makes me wanna padlock Blue Steel. It's basically a truck stop of 170,000 people.
  

Day 3 - Amarillo, Tx., to Flagstaff, Az.

• Is there a piece of paper I could sign to help give Texas back to Mexico? Though we'd probably have to do it when Mexico's not looking.
• A lot of campers out here. I don't get the pater familias who says, "Hey, kids, guess where we're going this summer? The desert!" Where there's no water! And you could die!
• I swear, a sign just advertised "Real Indians!" Not Real Indian Artifacts, or even Blankets. Real Indians. I cry a little.
• If ever you feel completely happy with yourself and convinced that the world is a beautiful and harmonious place, let me know and I'll get you on a plane to New Mexico.
• Finally, relief. Literally. Flagstaff's a beautful town, right at the ankles of the snowcapped southern Rockies. No joke there.
• My waitress' name was Mackenzie. That doesn't happen east of the Mississippi. $1.50 Coronas seven days a week. That doesn't happen either.
  

Day 4 - Flagfstaff, Az. - Los Angeles, Ca.

• I leave the Rockies in my rearview and once again encounter miles and miles of death and dirt. Hey, a dead elk! Yeah, that's the highlight.
• Hey, I could go see the Grand Canyon...
• I don't.
• Welcome to California! State border police asks me if I'm hiding anything, to which I reply, "vast amounts of untapped potential." The old man smiles and waves me on. Smugglers everywhere: pretend to be writers.
• More desert.
• Bumper-to-bumper traffic at 2 p.m. in the afternoon? Palm trees? Girl in the next car has a nose she wasn't born with? I'm home.

So there it is, the story I should have told weeks ago. Dig it. Tin Man out.