When the opening bars of Johnny Horton singing the Battle of New Orleans wafted out of the Juke box speaker, even I knew I had gone too far, and I beat it out of there knowing they had only the likes of Up North To Alaska and San Antonio Rose to look forward to on that rainy night. Hey, I didn’t put those CDs in that juke box. This made me think that we’re all in some stage of alien immigrant evolution; there are kids hiding in the suburbs somewhere far away losing an accent and growing up to raise kids who will move to NYC or LA and probably dig Johnny Cash if not some homicidal rap artist.

So here I am, a 3rd or 4th generation American slamming down old Route 66 one or two weeks away from being broke and homeless if my tenuous income is cut off, yet I have everything in this material world that I need and almost everything I desire. I can drive through the desert in my V8 with the AC cranked on high wondering how the hell any human ever reached California. It’s so beautiful, yet I guess I would go crazy after a while if I didn’t see one of my beloved 60’s strip malls with a car hoisted upon the roof as a sign. Today I feel just fine jamming down I-40 in Texas, burning daylight at 75 miles an hour - in my mind the beginning a sane speed limit - and stopping with my good traveling dog Sasha at the Cadillac Ranch to watch some Aggies add to the graffiti. I still imagine the majesty of the freshly planted car - the gleam of the chrome and primary colors must have been fine. Even then, 10 or 15 Caddies half buried under this big sky in the endless desert could only go so far. So starting at 75 seems reasonable; there must be a reason these cards are built to go over 100 with such ease.

There is a thick cloud cover, and Sasha, her head stretched out the window with her ears blown back, is gazing towards the vanishing horizon. We’re in New Mexico by now and used to the giant cactus arms reaching, reaching. Then the sun breaks through the clouds and paints a section of the endless desert, bringing to my attention thousands of small bright yellow flowers blooming everywhere. And then along the horizon line there’s a freight train, and it is the eternal freight train going on forever; I can see it’s the Union Pacific, but I can’t see the last car. Right at this moment, an actual hawk of some sort with a huge wing span cuts across my field of vision. This is too much. I would never even try to photograph something like this. I’m sure somebody could, but I’m not wired that way. I settle for the small ragged elegance of a rusted Buick or an abandoned motel - something I can wrap my limited vision around. I settle for recording the crumbling evidence of some of the small things that may touch me gently before they are ripped down and hauled away so that a Gap or a McDonald’s can be put up, and the actual people who really live here can feel some pride.