Conservatively, I calculated that my trip across the country would be roughly seven thousand miles. To answer your next question: yes, that may be only conservative thing I have ever done.
As I write this I am in Roswell, New Mexico, at a hotel whose staff have made the decision to leave a flyswatter in each room instead of going to all the trouble of just not having flies in every room in the fucking hotel. The silver lining, I guess, is that the flies make great company after a long day in the car with nobody but Roy Dotrice and his rousing audiobook performance for companionship.
I shall name one fly for each place I’ve been so far. Maryland is my favorite fly, I’ve just decided.
Why am I in Roswell? There’s a joke to be made here about my ship crashing nearby, but I simply don’t have the energy to make that joke. I’m in Roswell because the next Hollywood, the penultimate Hollywood, is in Portland, Oregon. From San Antonio to Portland is roughly two thousand miles all by itself, making this far and away the longest leg of the trip. The plan right now is to arrive in Portland on Sunday.
What lies between now and Sunday? Tomorrow night I’ll be in Denver. The next night in Salt Late City. And Saturday night I’ll be… somewhere in Idaho, maybe? It’s up in the air.
If you’ve been waiting for the right time to call and say hi or check up on the project, now’s your chance: the next 72 hours I’ll be in the car, alone but for the dulcet tones of Roy Dotrice’s voice.