One of the hard lessons of this trip was learning just how bad radio actually has become. I've always loathed Clear Channel. Now I'm praying for some sort of Enron-like conflagration to engulf it so that it will die quickly and spare us any further horror.

One of their tricks is cross-promoting vacation sites by broadcasting from the vacation site location to the target market. Hence, while driving through far western Nebraska and eastern Wyoming en route to Cheyenne, we heard "Captain Dan [blah, blah, blah, something like that] and his raft of classic rock goodness" from St. Croix in the Virgin Islands, complete with commercials for Chez Margarita Lobster Bar and Grill with the best Lobster this side of Angola, weather reports, and constant references to the Virgin Islands and time share condos, all kind-of infused with this vaguely Jimmy Buffettish air of good times on the water under the gentle tropical sun. Nevermind that we were at 5,000 feet elevation surrounded by an endless expanse of the hard, austere beauty of the high plains and low mountains, with narry a palm tree in sight--no trees at all for that matter--a large, gathering thunder storm, the odd sheep and cow here and there, a far off Union Pacific train loaded with oil, coal, and cattle, and air dry enough to crack the lips of even the hardiest cowboy. Oh, and the nearest large body of water is a modest 1,000 miles away.

It makes no sense. It's wrong. It's vile. They should be run out of town.

Nevermind that they played Bon Jovi, George Thoroughgood, ELO, Genesis (with Phil Collins), Billy Squire, Skid Row, Warrant, and other luminaries of a bygone era.

By now you've probably heard the complaint that because of behemoths like Clear Channel, radio sounds the same no matter where you go. I'd always been a bit suspicious of that claim, wanting to believe that it was the hysterical exaggeration of NPR fanatics.

Wrong. It's true. Literally, completely true. We heard "Classic rock" stations in Wyoming, Nevada, Missouri, Nebraska, Alabama, Mississippi, and Tennessee. They were identical. Absolutely identical. From the tone and style of DJing to the programming, to set lengths, all virtually carbon copies of each other. It was horrifying. I mean, we actually heard more than one Jethro Tull song in three days. Five--FIVE!--Bad Company songs, one of them twice. Three ELO songs. Bon Jovi was uncountable. It never ended.

Three exceptions: somewhere in Georgia--Macon I think--there was a good rock station. Oldies format mostly, but with some very interesting selections and a DJ who didn't seem computer generated. Kansas City had another. The guy we heard is apparently a local legend dating back to the pre-Cambrian era. I can't remember his name. Weird guy, but at least he had a personality. Finally, Lincoln, Nebraska had an indie station whose broadcast we flitted through all too quickly.

Outside of the dismal world of classic rock, there was as sad a lack of almost everything else except bad country of the power ballad and Shania Twain 'feeling like a woman' variety. Hardly any blues, no jazz, almost no good newer (or older) rock, no classical until we hit Palmdale, no nothing basically. It wasn't until we hit Salt Lake City that I actually heard a blues lick worth listening to: it was a fabulous, otherworldly song with Buddy Guy on acoustic guitar and vocals and Junior Wells on harp, going back to pure Delta roots.

Aside from music, Christian radio was number one. In remote areas, if there was one station at all, it was Christian. Mostly we didn't linger over them, but one day I tortured Robert with a few contemporary gospel songs. They weren't much but at least there was some conviction in the songs, even if I was repeatedly reminded that faith is the raft that will bear you 'cross the river. A highlight was hearing an archival recording of someone who sounded like John Barrymore as Hamlet reading from the Bible, with added contemporary commentary from a very dry, very cramped sounding man.

If the current state of radio is any indication of where it's going, consider it a dead art. I mourn its passing.