SEARCHING FOR AMERICAN SUPERSTARS

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN LAUGHLIN, NEVADA, AND CLINT'S WELL, ARIZONA, YOU MIGHT FIND THE MEANING OF LIFE IN THE '90S. ROGJT.

Tim began snapping away, I sat in the grass and read a book. It's amazing how dull it was watching this whole tableau. After all, it wasn't the same crowd you'd find lobbing and spiking in Hef's backyard. I'm sorry, but the idea of seeing people who look like, say, Jerry Garcia or Bea Arthur in the raw is not my cup of tea. But we did what we had to do, then got back into our reliable, filthy vehicle and headed south.

So what's the moral? Where's the payoff to this whole thing? When we finally got back to Phoenix and got out of the car, my wife grimaced and said, "You look really burned out. And Tim looks like he's catatonic."

Burned out? Catatonic? Ha! I'd been audience to the Superstars, walked among nudists, witnessed a natural, moving experience in the desert and seen all of Nothing itself. Now that's what I call a weekend. That's what I call America.

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