My Windshield is a Bug's Worst Nightmare

Day 5

States I Ass-Kicked Today: New Mexico

Current Location: Flagstaff, Arizona

Total Miles Traveled So Far: About 2,600

Dead Insects on Windshield: About 2,600

My favorite sign for today:

"Or they may not. Whatever." - state of New Mexico

This morning I awoke bright and early. Not of my own volition, mind you. I was on the first floor of the crack den Super 8 and a guy outside decided to rifle through his pickup while his loud car alarm went off. First I thought "He's robbing that truck!" and my reaction was relief, because it wasn't our car. Then, after a good three minutes, douche pulls his key fob out of his pocket and shuts off the alarm. Are you kidding, dick? I wanted to pull off his Calvin-peeing-on-a-Ford-symbol mud flaps and shove them down his throat. Finally I got back into bed and shut my weary eyes... only to be awoken immediately by two Mexican cleaning ladies screaming back and forth and cackling at the top of their lungs in the hallway.

So if this is garbled and crappy, go fuck yourself. No one else is reading this shit anyway. Chris.

After my restful, soothing morning, I headed to the Roswell UFO Museum and Research Center, where the woman behind the desk kept giving me nasty looks while she helped the old couple in front of me. How does she know I'm from the North already? What the hell, bitch?! I thought. Then it was my turn and I realized she had a lazy eye. I am a terrible person and should rot in hell.

Once inside the actual museum part, the first thing I noticed was a group of visitors wearing tin foil helmets. Seriously. I hope it was a joke. Otherwise, there's a large group of paranoid schizophrenics wandering the tourist attractions of Roswell. Be advised.

As for the museum, it's pretty interesting, actually. LOTS of text to read - it's not really "interactive", but I knew nothing about the Roswell Incident, so that was fascinating. I am a total skeptic about most things, but this gave me pause. They have a ton of sworn affidavits and articles and shiz. Read this is you don't know what I'm talking about: www.roswellufomuseum.com/incident.htm

Oh, and they also have a prop from the Showtime movie "Roswell".

That's actually Kyle MacLachlan in the lab coat. He hasn't had a lot going on since Charlotte dumped his impotent ass. Zing! Oh no she didn't!

Then I headed northwest to Tinkertown - a small museum out in the middle of nowhere. Not to wax rhapsodic (as I so often do), but the landscape and views and sky and mesas and sun and clouds - it was freakin' beautiful today. Okay, that's enough earnestness. Tinkertown started when some crazy guy decided to carve a little house and little people to live there. And he also started embedding bottles into the thick cement walls he was building around his house. Then he decided to make more little people, and more little buildings, and 40 years later he had 50,000 bottles in his walls and a bazillion little carved things sitting around, so they turned his house into a museum. Tin. Foil. Helmets. Anyway, the guy was incredibly talented and this place is insanely weird in a cool way. They have old-timey machines that still work. I did a fortune teller machine. Then they asked me to leave. Hey-oh! See, because I was implying I had sex with the machine... [coughs, clears throat] So, my fortune said I should be nicer to my husband and wear onyx jewelry. I'll do one of those things. If I can find some onyx jewelry. Here's a creepy woman that the guy carved, holding a most-definitely racist doll:Finally, my evening concluded at a restaurant in Flagstaff, where I am staying at a much nicer hotel. I don't like to brag, but can you say Holiday Inn Express? High roller! Anyway, ate dinner at a diner. The waitress was very friendly. She complimented me on my hair. I complimented her on hers. Mainly because I was afraid of her (she had a shaved head with one dyed-black patch of bangs in the front). She kept calling me "babe" and "sweetheart". I was weary of trying to concentrate on my book while the French tourists (no, I don't know why there were French tourists in a diner in Flagstaff) behind me argued loudly. Anyway, I asked for a slice of apple pie to go. The waitress came back with what appeared to be a trash bag. "We had a little extra," she smiled. Oh God, she's trying to poison the Northerner I thought, smelling the bag for an almond-y smell (that's how you identify cyanide. What the hell kind of spy are you?). When I got to the hotel and warily opened the container, there was HALF A PIE in there. Seriously. And... wait for it... wait for it... her number.

I am such a stud.