Alabama and Louisiana fade into the distance with little worth mentioning other than the above average number of pot holes and the thick-as-a-brick humidity. That I battled a 101 degree fever for two days may have something to do with my lack of detail, but regardless, good riddance to all of it.
Onward into the Lone Star State, where my fever breaks as the ramshackle buildings lining the highways of the deep southeast give way to one old brick town after another. This just might be state highway travel at its finest – a 75 mph speed limit on wide open roads through the country, slowing every forty miles or so for one lone traffic light in the middle of another historic town, and then back up to 75 again.
A rowdy East Texas bar, beers, a burger, and the Cowboys – possibly as American a tradition as we have left anymore. Watching the Cowboys on Thanksgiving, that is, not (necessarily) watching them in a rowdy East Texas bar. Anyway, the female bartender, probably young enough to be my daughter, alternates between calling me "baby doll" and just plain "baby," the fat bubba on my left can't make up his mind whether the Redskins' tight end is black or white (I want to tell him black, but I'm honestly not sure how he'll take this news), and an actual cowboy sitting on my right is glued to his damn smartphone.
Texas. Who needs reality TV when this is reality?