Was up and adam and out of the hotel room by about 10:30. See, I was enjoying an extra hour of the Central Time Zone. Every little bit counts.

My exit off I-64 was but a couple miles north of Abe Lincoln’s boyhood home. A National Park, this was the farm he grew up on, before moving to Kentucky at the age of 13 or something.

I took a little nature walk to see the remains of their cabin, shot the shit with a farm keep working on a “living history” 1830’s farm on the grounds and checked out the small museum in the welcome center. A good start to the morning.

318. “Pulling in…”
319. “The Lincoln Welcome Center.”
320. “1861-1865 relief.”
321. “Lincoln portraits.”
322. “The grounds.”
323. “The walking path up to the old site.”
324. “The gravesite of his mother.”
325. “The footprint of Abe Lincoln’s boyhood cabin.”

We give you: “The Abe Lincoln Boyhood Home Living History Farm”:
326. “Stepping back into 1836…”
327. “The workshop.”
328. “Anvil life.”
329. “Bedbugs.”
330. “A rickety old fence that was my favorite part of the whole farm.”
331. “Real Rustic: Chestnut checkers.”
332. “This fucker was born in 1802!”

I’m pretty complete with my “Abe Lincoln” points of interest pitstops.

Let’s see:
01. Been to Gettysburg a couple times now.
02. Been to Springfield, Ill., to the home he lived in while lawyering.
03. Got denied at the gates of his birthplace in Kentucky. (Closed 10 minutes before…fuck.)
04. Stood on the big steps of the Abe Lincoln Monument in Washington D.C.
05. Saw his blood-splattered rocking chair from the night he was assassinated at the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit.

Not bad. He’s by far my favorite President. He must be rolling over in his grave, watching over the current administation’s march into infamy. Down with Bush.

- - - -

Beautiful country down here. Stuff like this stopped me in my tracks making my way back out to the Interstate:

333. “Peaceful.”
334. “Dig the green one, man. Pretty good.”

I got into St. Louis about three hours later, filled Big S up and took a run up and down Broadway Avenue checking out the once-bustling warehouse districts. Lots of great existing brick signage, as well as tons of ghosts signs from times forgotten.

Broadway Avenue’s reasons to pull over and fuck traffic up:
335. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.01”
336. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.02”
337. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.03”
338. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.04”
339. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.05”e
340. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.06”
341. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.07”
342. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.08”
343. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.09”
344. “St. Louis Warehouse Tour, no.10”

Driving around I thought about the following things, in no particular order: Where Jay Farrar might live, Uncle Tupelo’s early days, Cicero’s, Chad Kloepfer from MCAD, that big arch, Brian Henneman, those Bottle Rockets, Tom Parr, the Casino Queen, a young Jeff Tweedy and Ozzie Smith’s backflips, back in the day.

I thought I’d pull an all-nighter in some parking lot, and then catch my flight the next morning. That idea lasted just up until I saw a Days Inn. Done. Goodnight.