Somewhere on US-Route 84 between Synder and Post, the road snakes to the right. When you come around the bend, the grass is gone. Dirt and red clay have seeped to the surface from below and overtaken the countryside. Abandoned farms, ranches and scrapyards are littered sporadically. Historical markers lead nowhere. The horizon is flat. You could fall off the edge of the world.
On the road, wind power plants line plateaus. Miles of pinwheels spin slowly. Oil fields are abound with their rigs and pistons; hydraulic pumps teeter back and forth plunging below the earth. Ben Dickey called from Chicago, where Spoon were performing at Lollapalooza. We spoke for five or ten minutes. He thought the book idea sounded cool and we’re going to get in touch once I’m home.
Lubbock is sparse. It is hot. There are railroads crossing through the city. There are junkyards. Metal scraps. It is easy to buy bail bonds. No stop in Lubbock is complete without a trip to the Buddy Holly Center. I counted three people exploring the museum. There wasn’t much to see there other than a guitar-shaped room full of artifacts and a 20-minute movie. The art exhibit had a room called, “The 25 Best Album Covers That Never Were.” When I was finished, I stopped at The Hub City Brewery for some good Texas cooking and a pint of their special oatmeal stout. Albuquerque tomorrow.
