The vastness of the Arizona Painted Desert stretches out all around me, home to the nameless dead.
Due to its proximity to the Grand Canyon, Williams is a thriving cluster of motels and tourist dives.
Each turn of the mother road holds shuttered motels forever locked at “no vacancy”. In those now boarded up rooms, men and women once held each other with the thrill of new love throbbing through their wide open veins.
To quote the Flight of the Conchords, “I’m not crying, it’s just raining on my face.” This is heaven.
A machete wielding maniac in a hockey mask approaches our car ….
As we head west we make a brief side visit to the City of Sin to take my daughter to Veggee Delight. I’m a little worried as the GPS leads us through the Vegas Strip deep into the heart of Chinatown.
“I fucked up that sonofabitch real good,” drawls one of the dusty men, sporting a mighty handlebar mustache.
I haven’t felt this inadequate since freshman year gym class. Yellowstone is a nature photographer’s wet dream.
“Maybe we should turn back,” suggests my wife, “see if there is a hotel or something somewhere else.” However, I’m too tired to admit defeat.
We bypass the lot and hang out of the car window, wildly clicking the shutter gangsta style as we do a drive by shooting of the four presidents.