Driving to Chicago down Hwy. 12

I wish I had enough money to have someone come to my house and give me a pedicure.

But I think about my 1977 Class C Dodge Motorhome Bertha. And how I felt when I decided to “fix” her. I felt rich. I acted rich. As if I’d always be rich. I wouldn’t be. As if money could fix anything. It can’t, least of all an old vehicle.

Is everything about the hunt for money? (Deadliest Catch) Is that noble? Should we care?

Is life all about asking questions?

Anyway- I thought about other things on my FIVE HOURS in traffic. Three of them moving.

Detective Gumshoe. Ernest to the point of annoyance. But not an evil bone in his body. Never does anything purposefully harmful, but sometimes, things done with the best intentions still cause harm and heartache (Operation Baby Lift).

Fort Atkinson looks like a cute little town. I'd love to go to Fireside Theater.

I want to start a promotion called "get off the road" all about exploring life outside of the Interstate.

Heard an interesting conversation about advertising. How you can't just grab consumers and shake them and scream your brand at them ("Tide!") I think that could actually make a very funny commercial. Don't know if it would sell Tide though. That's the whole rub.

Gotta look up Cambridge Salvage. Looks like it could be a U-Pull-It!

Star Road - cute little school - young cows - horses - Rustic Road - crazy ruins of an old Motel?

Mink Farm Bar. Gigantic over-inflated house for sale right off the highway.

The semantics of Sports Radio and the subtleties of complex ideas. Athletes are not entertainers, but they can entertain.

A tiny little market. "Markette"!