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I guess another “storm of the century” passed right above me last night, too. Mom said Chicago had been hit hard, and it was “all over the news.” Hmmm. I fell asleep madder than spit, and don’t remember hearing too much, otherwise.

Got up and hit the road west on that big, long I-80 across Illinois towards those wild-ass Quad Cities.

403. “I’ve done this stretch a million times.”

Not too much to report. It was gray out, and a little bit rainy. Smooth sailing all the way into Iowa.

404. “Some birds kept up with me for a couple miles.”
405. “Thanks, fellas. See you next time…”

Did a little junking and picked up some memo books for the collection. The antique shops in the Midwest are so organized. I love it. Postcards here, maps here, memo books here. Done. “How much for the whole box, lady?”

Got into Iowa, pulled over and gave thanks.

406. “Iowa.”

Headed into downtown Davenport. No incidents to report, other than a couple methed-out townies starting trouble at an intersection. Wow.

407. “Fuck you, motherfucker! Take yer fuckin’ shit and…”

Fed up with Davenport’s downtown life, I got back on the I-80 and headed over to Iowa City. My first time here, in the fall of 1995, sitting at some college bar, and was told by a guy with a toothy, sinister grin, “This is the place the farmer’s send their daughters to. Ha ha.” Hmmm. Thanks, man. I remember being a little pissed, as I missed the Cows by one night or something. Shit.

I grabbed a room at the Days Inn and bedded down for a long night of working.

Tomorrow I head up to Dyersville, and that Field of Dreams, and, will be meeting this cocksucker from Minneapolis who goes by the moniker, “Ryno.” A brother of ours. RULE 7: Don’t fuck with family.

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