God. What a practical joker.

So, we'd made it seven hours into Wyoming yesterday with no blatant reminders of the state's favorite son. Sure, we passed four 100-car coal trains (all the better to choke your environment with, my dear!), but no signs pointing to the boyhood home of He Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned, no trail of octogenarian bank executives with cranial gunshot wounds ... nothing. Just rolling hills, fruited plains, buffalo roaming -- lovely.

Then, as we were checking into our deluxe accommodations at the Rock Springs La Quinta (Spanish for "mediocre continental breakfast"), a fella who'd pulled in just behind us approached the desk and asked the clerk, "Y'all got any rooms available tonight?" When we went back outside, I checked the name painted on the door of his pickup truck:

"Halliburton. Houston, Texas."

I fully expect to trip over a pile of Vietnam War deferments on our way out of town today.