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read "38 miles to the historic Lincoln log cabin." I began to grow suspicious that someone was either not being totally truthful in marking the distance or...we had entered the Twilight Zone...doomed to forever drive 38 miles to the historic Lincon log cabin. I decided to mark the distance with my cars odometer. Five miles. Ten miles. Twelve miles. The signs still fortold of a thirty-eight mile hop to this nirvana of Americana. Then my mind started to wander to thoughts of the absurd. What if they meant a small structure built out of the toy called "Lincoln Logs?" What if it was made from Legos in the parking lot of some under-leased strip mall? What if it was the home of some nice old couple named Lincoln and the history was the fact that they had owned over two hundred cats since 1969? The road grew smaller and dustier. I thought of turning around, but it was only thirty-eight miles further. How could we miss something of such importance to our nation's struggle for the greatness we now enjoy? Where the hell was I? The signs had disappeared at least, oh, I don't know...thirty-eight miles ago? And then, it was there; a sign from God? I don't remember as my hysterical, well, more like maniacal laughter had tears welling in my eyes. Off in the distance...a small log cabin appeared with a sign out front. "Historic Lincoln log cabin - 38 miles."

We rolled into the parking lot and stretched like waking cats as we emerged from the mini van. Our first stop was the tourist information center where I planned to murder every employee there. My eyes were red with rage; the kids were stumbling in exhaustion.

"Hi!" came a warm greeting from a tall, skinny gentleman in a Lincoln suit, stovepipe hat and the perfect accessory of Elton John-type glasses. "Welcome to the historic Lincoln log cabin!"

"Thirty eight miles?" I screamed. He looked perplexed. No, come to think of it, he looked terrified. I don't remember exactly what took place next, but I believe there was something about the cabin belonging to Abe Lincoln's parents, who had moved there long after Honest Abe had been President, and something about him not actually ever being there. I have a slight recollection of video taping the cabin while verbally abusing the costumed guides and some hazy memory of seeing a fiery, log cabin fueled holocaust in my rear view mirror as I drove the thirty-eight miles back to the main road.

I made it all the way through Illinois without stopping or glancing at a sign, for fear I might

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