This is the second Chicago area airport in which we've served time in the space of three days. And, I hope, last. The X crew (minus an ailing Mark Simple) rescued us from the Hardee's Hostage Crisis, Hour Four. Before leaving town, we all went back across the street to the auto graveyard to see Lucky one last time. As we gathered around the fallen Lucky, I felt as though someone should, I don't know, say a few words, or at least sing a few choruses of "Old Shep" or something. Instead, when signs of life appear from within Junior's trailer we high-tail it, fearing that Burford might shoot Mr. GoodRunt. Or vice-versa.

My next art car would be different, I vowed.

Barbara Wodehouse used to claim there are "No Bad Dogs." Now that both she and Lucky are dearly departed, we'll see if she changes her tune in The Hot Place where, if there is cosmic justice in the world, Lucky is belching blue smoke in her face for all eternity.

I had been hoping this trip would reverse my long history of bad Midwestern experiences. Nope, no luck; no Lucky. Illinois now exists in my memory as a two-airport, two-motel, two-truckstop wilderness that takes a dim view of cars with canine-motif paint jobs. The day (if not general anti-Midwestern feelings) was redeemed by a til-3am eating party at a Chicago blintzery, where our party enjoyed early-morning Polish fare and a slow parade of Chicago's Finest and fattest, which not even spending the night at Midway airport has erased. Oops, gotta go--boarding call.

$420 airplane round trip to pick up a statue that I'm almost sure could have been fed-exed for less than that. Suddenly I understand a passage from Nietzsche: "One pays heavily for being a disciple of Wagner." One also pays heavily for being a passenger of Lucky's.

Things worked out reasonably well for Burford the Elf: he got to spend Xmas eve and day with his newly-pregnant wife (before we left), and was home in time for their anniversary dinner.

No Lincoln's tomb for Deuce.

Upon return I went to the stereo to drown myself in forgetful music, but I am mocked by Nelson Riddle's Route 66 CD, the last thing I listened to before leaving Arizona those many days -- days?! -- ago. I turn on the radio, which immediately plays 311's "Lucky." Then my insurance agent calls to ask if I'll be insuring the second car I mentioned to her.

On the bright side, the job's not getting me down any longer. I find I've been laid off. Ho! HO! HO!