I write you from a Starbucks in Albuquerque, New Mexico, daintily sipping an iced coffee, which, I must admit, tastes terrible, and I loathe myself for drinking it. The mo-tel in which I slept last night (room 111, Americana Motel, Tucumcari, NM) had not yet been connected via a series of tubes to any of the Internets, thus I was unable to continue my blogtastic journey into the heart of the American stallmonger. I have, however, continued to accumulate stunning photographic evidence, and I pledge to share it with you this coming eve. Take heart, pitiable cyberdenizens, for your bottomless appetites for trivial pseudo-anthropology shall soon be temporarily satiated once again.
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