Greetings from Des Plaines--which may well be named for "da planes" that fly into nearby O'Hare, dumping loads of unsuspecting tourists at O'Hare, where they fall victim to the airport hotel boards from which they must pick their hotels sight unseen and ride into who knows what hell. We picked "La Casa"--somehow, the name reminded me of home.

Error.

The M, O, & T on their sign are burned out, welcoming us to "La Casa EL." Or as we immediately dubbed it, of course, "La Casa Hell." It was a joke at first. But Dante never saw such a place. We may really be in Hell. (I'll have to check the postmark.) The place smelled like urine, the bedspread had more stains than Jackson Pollack's dropcloth, and the mattress had zero back support--in the morning I felt like I spent the night on a plate of mashed potatoes.

We had a great flight out, though--mainly because there were 102 empty seats. Travelling on Xmess day has it benefits. Burford let the flight attendant keep rubbing up against him, so we got free headphones and all the food we wanted. Too bad the attendant wasn't female. Got some good photos, one of Burford with some Tempe Diablos in cowboy hats (who gave us cloth Fiesta Bowl stickers for our caps) and some Spanish-speaking nuns. Devils and Nuns? I'm sensing bad juju. (In fulfillment of which, Burford left his camera at the airport--which explains the lack of devil and nun photos on this page.)

Back at Motel Hell, we watched bad movies all night: some Steven Segal disaster, something called Miracle Beach (featuring Micky Dolenz's daughter as a "Beach Genie"), and Thing Called Love. I wasn't having too much luck reaching the X Magazine team. For one thing, the phone in the room is almost impossible to use (probably by design, to keep per-hour mattress-mashers from skipping out on long-distance charges). Instead, I've been using the pay phone outside to try & get an ETA for Lucky. No luck. (Or, no Lucky.) So far, then: bad movies, bad place, bad juju.

As we leave in the morning, Burf points out that "El La Casa" kind of makes sense. Hmm. In elf-speak, maybe, Burf, but not in Spanish. "The the house?"

MON 12/26 1130am
O'Hare Airport

We're back at the airport. Can you believe it? If you can, that makes one of us. Seems the X crew hasn't even left Detroit yet. Having no place else to go, we caught the Hell Shuttle back to O'Hare, where we booked a limousine service to take us to Michigan City. Which isn't in Michigan at all, but Indiana. But then, the "limousine" turns out to be not a limousine, but a bus. So there's a theme going on. I feel better. On the way, there's nothing to see but the Sears Tower and desolation. (That's not meant as a Kerouac reference, by the way.)

TUE 12/27 1:00 a.m.
Motel 6, Normal, Illinois

We picked up Lucky at Liz's house on Lake Michigan. After a brief visit with the X Magazine contingent, we set out for Arizona at about sunset. After a great evening's drive in my new Art Car, I was ready for a snooze. (Actually, I was too chicken to drive in fog.) No cops arrested us, so we had to fall back on Lodging Plan B and spring for a room at Motel 6 (in Normal, Illinois--hardly the place for an art car, one would think). Finally, a little time to reflect...

Earlier that day, Liz had picked us up at the Michigan City Holiday Inn & we arrived at her house on Lake Michigan shortly before the X Magazinesters arrived with Lucky. What a great car! The X staff had 2nd thoughts about handing over the keys. I even thought I might have seen the beginnings of a tear or two. And no wonder. Lucky's amazing Little People paint job is eye-catching, and as an added bonus, the "XMAG CAR COMPANY" markings are still visible underneath the paint-roller paint job, as well as the "VROOOM! VROOOM!" legend on the rear driver's side fender.

I'm liking this car, can you tell?

Before we drove her away, Mark & Pat offered compelling Lucky trivia:

• "Sometimes the rear drivers'-side window goes up and down by itself."
• "Radio! What radio?"
• "If you open both doors at once, the car may split in two." ("Like the Edmund Fitzgerald," says Mark).

First Blood. Not bacon.

The odometer shows almost 130,000. Assuming it's on its first time around--which is maybe assuming too much. When Pat slammed Lucky's passenger door a hunk of rust fell off--the trip's first blood.

Pat is inexplicably obsessed with Lucky's DieHard battery. It's nowhere near new, but for some reason he adores it. I've never heard of anyone with a sentimental attachment to a fat corrosive material container. Except for Tom Arnold, and he got over it. I mean, c'mon--it's not as if it's a statue or something, for crying out loud. But his [attachment] made his willingness to part with it all the more touching.

Just before leaving, Liz takes us on a walk to see Lake Michigan. It played out more or less like that scene from Stranger Than Paradise:

Having had that tender moment, it was time for us to set out.

Sadly, Burford has discovered that he left his elf vest (representing hours of work, if you can believe it) back in AZ, so we may be coasting without magical powers. He also lost his camera, at O'Hare we think, so there'll be no magical photos. He thought he lost his cellphone, but that, at least, turns up. Still, I'm not liking this trend. To combat bad luck, we adorn Lucky's dashboard with an Archie McPhee magnetic Saint Christopher statue. (I didn't find out until later that--like Route 66 itself--Saint Christopher had been decommissioned.)

Lucky didn't seem to need any help. He ran like a champ to Normal. Great passing gear. I feel Big. I haven't had an engine this powerful since my '69 Ford LTD 429. At the sight of the car--not to mention its pilot--truckers honk, motorists wave. With dismay, however, I found that even Santa must pay the toll-booth operators. (All of whose names have been struck from Santa's list. Coal & switches for you, government lackeys!) Cold? Not for us sensible people who remembered to wear their scientific underwear, it isn't. It was a beautiful night, and it was difficult not to drive off the road from craning my neck at the millions of stars. At least, until the fog came in.

In the Motel 6 room, while Burford arranges via phone for our airline employee friend to deliver the magical elf vest for pickup in St. Louis, I study Route 66 books to work on the itinerary. Tomorrow's first stop is the Dixie Truckers Home, site of the Route 66 museum. According to Wallis's Route 66: The Mother Road, the part of Route 66 we'll be on tomorrow "earned the nickname `Bloody 66.' Sometimes it was simply called `the Killer.' But there were also plenty of safe harbors. The Dixie Truckers Home was generally a snug refuge for travelers."