Things are getting weirder than weird as the Republican National Convention invades Milwaukee, so two forlorn Milwaukeeans are choosing to follow Route 66 to remember, to recharge, and to take pilgrimage at the Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan Centers in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Is this evasive action wise? Will the road lead them to something better than the RNC? They have five days to find out… (Day 1, Day 3, Day 4, Day 5.)

Day 2: Monday, July 15, from Petersburg, IL to Cuba, MO

Awake sluggish to the crinkling of strange plastic covering on the motel pillow. Before regaining proper consciousness, I sneak out for a morning stroll. I climb the nearest hill and am met with an encouraging sign: Cellphone Use is Prohibited. I pat my back pocket as if to say, “stay there, Samsung Galaxy” (yeah, I take a photo of the sign), and quickly case the Main Street square one last time. The only cafe in town is closed on Monday, so I hustle back to our former bank motel hoping for a leftover vacuum tube cylindrical portal to send me a banana from the free breakfast bar (literally at the bar). No dice, but free is free so we load up on Nutra Grain bars, bananas, and apple juice and hit the road.

We head south through the Land of Lincoln, littered with brown signs to Abe’s home, his museum, his library, the sight of his first hickey, and the 16th U.S. President’s tomb. We drive by a formidable Abraham statue that my colleague refers to as “Unfuckable” Lincoln, flanked by “Enthusiastic Farmer” Lincoln, who’s rearing a pitchfork in full stride. Hell yeah, Abe, now THAT’S the presidential giddiup I can get behind.

We move on to his tomb and get instantly pulled into a “Porch Talk” with a Lincoln Museum staff member. His “Porch Talk” topic is Lincoln Beyond Borders, and he connects his native Nigeria’s near Civil War and strife with the American Civil War, and highlights how Lincoln suggested France and England “mind their own business” during the battle for our nation’s soul. It’s a touchingly personal testimonial to Lincoln’s power and allure worldwide, and the staff member mentions current political people by name and compares them less than favorably to Abe.

Within the tomb, which is currently receiving a phallic facelift, it’s beyond impressive. Perfect lighting, A/C, a circular foray, and informative plaques. The statues are plenty, and most impressive to me is the humility that radiates from Lincoln in bronze. He’s on a horse, embodying his days as a Circuit Rider. His head is low, down to the ground, as if he’s riding out of town, bowing to the sunset. Abraham’s humility on horseback is breathtaking. Unfortunately, I start talking about this to a woman who had also been jabbering away in the tomb. She’s from Madison, Wisconsin and I say we’re from Milwaukee. She asks if we’re missing the “activity going on in Milwaukee” and I say “Hell, no.” I then notice Barry absorbing the goddamn gravitas, with actual gravitas, so I apologize by saying “I’m gonna shut up now.” I do. As if in retribution, as we exit the mausoleum, the tour guide (in a voice like that of Crash Test Dummies’ lead singer) is saying “Tad was dead. On this day in 1871, Tad dies. Soon after Tad is buried here.” Tough, but fair.

Despite free bananas, car-pretzels, and my endless supply of M&Ms, we’re sort of hungry already. Barry suggests Route 66 legend Skyview Drive-In in Litchfield, Illinois. We enter on foot and the owner greets us warmly with “Would you like cheese on yours?” as the server hands us each icy draft root beers. I’m famous for speaking slowly and making little sense, so I ask what it is we might want cheese to be placed upon. He explains they have but one meal item, a diced-up beef sandwich with onions. Barry takes one cheese-less and I ask for fries. The owner gives me a pitying glance and tells us that the place has been “income tax” in business since 1920, but they’ve been serving since 1912 or earlier. I douse my plate with Louisiana hot sauce and sulk at my fries. The involuntary root beer is good but not at all what I want. The compulsory sandwich, says Barry, is the best loose hamburger this side of Leon’s.

I am a sullen man as we leave Sky-View and I want grilled chicken. We drive aimlessly along Historic Route 66 and encounter construction, crossroads, a man power-sawing through a guardrail (metaphor, anybody), and riff on fictional band names: The Dirty Inskirts opening for the Fat Abe Lincolns. My mood suffers until pulling into an embarrassing Subway for grilled chicken with BBQ squirt upon it that sparks my energy, and after a tall can of Coke and Keebler Peanut Butter Sandwich crackers, we rock Route 66 with Bob Dylan’s Love And Theft reigniting our spirits…the wind was whispering, we’re trying to hear what it was…

Thanks to Barry’s quick navigational recombobulation (shoutout, Dan Shafer), we point the red convertible southwest to Mount Olive, Illinois. A happy surprise for us: Mount Olive is the home of a Mother Jones memorial and museum. We veer off Route 66 to pay homage to the great woman. Her grave is surrounded by words of irrefutable truths: “We must stand together, if we don’t, there will be no victory for any one of us” and our favorite: “Sit down and read. Educate yourself for the coming conflicts.” It’s overwhelming how strong Mother Jones had been, losing her children and husband to sickness, supporting miner’s struggle for safer conditions, better pay, and a place to be buried. She was, in her own words, “an organizer, an agitator, and an aggravator. I act because I love humanity.” Amen.

Later, in a “regular person” cemetery, I come to grips with the heat, and having to relieve myself. I trudge as far away from tombstones as possible, to the cemetery’s hypotenuse of cornfield and wood. Here, as I provide hydration for the soil, I find a destroyed Rubbermaid container, overwhelmed by the bricks that had been overstuffed within it (speaking of fictional band names, Rejected Tombstones), and nearby I notice a crumpled miniature American flag at the edge of the wood. Had I not been paying attention, the flag would have easily fallen within the purview of my current activity. My thoughts, midstream, turn to what federal law hydrating the flag may violate, and I have a serious crisis of conscience. What do I do or do not do? I won’t say.

High water everywhere. It’s hard out there. It’s also hot right here on the road: 101 is the temperature as we debate the merits of continuing on “Old” Route 66 or joining an interstate to circumnavigate the impending St. Louis. Barry’s cooler head prevails and we ride a sumptuous and leafy I44 West to Cuba, Missouri where the Wagon Wheel Motel awaits. Radio’s homogenized chum disturbs our ears and we agree to pop in Dylan’s Bootleg Series Disc 2. The majesty of these outtakes, demos, and castoffs shall not be understated. No, this is Bob Dylan on “She’s Your Lover Now” straining with uncharacteristic remorse with lines like:

Your mouth used to be so naked
Your eyes used to be so blue
Your hurts used to be so nameless
And your tears used to be so few

Thanks to Dylan, I think of my woman, my children, my parents, my sister, the road ahead, but also of everything in this country that Abe Lincoln would find so disfigured, so unholy, unhinged and devoid of humanity and humility, and I feel a tear rippling in my eye…