On the drive from Chicago to Los Angeles, we were rolling along Interstate 80 through the vast, wheat-filled void that is central Nebraska. Even more so than the desert, Nebraska gives you the overwhelming feeling of being in a very specific place, while at the same time being lost in a sea of all-encompassing uniformity. I imagine that if and when the apocalypse comes, the whole world will look like Nebraska.
Just up the road from the town of Pleasant Dale, Nebraska (home to 245 souls as well as the fifth-largest honey glazed ham factory in Nebraska) there is an abandoned gas station with a towering rusted metal sign which reads “GAS”. It was this sign which prompted us to interrupt our westward progress at exit 388 off I-80. Across the street from the gas station is an ordinary-looking house, except for the paint job—all hippie rainbows, flowers and
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