A few months ago, I was leisurely driving back to Tucson from a night of boozing with friends in Phoenix. By the time I’d left the city I’d puked four times, spewing a half-digested paste of fried chicken and waffles all over the entrance to a Circle K. Good times.

I was feeling better by the time I’d gotten to Casa Grande, a prehistoric ruin a dozen or so long miles east of the interstate. After meandering around and eating my first McDonalds ice cream sundae in many, many years, I continued south towards highway 79. I didn’t like much the 110 degree hair-dryer-to-the-face effect of the stinky, boring interstate it paralleled.

Somewhere nearing the town of Florence, I stopped at a “roadside table” and the hint of a memorial for one Tom Mix. I figured it might be interesting. In fact, my post-vomitous stupor had somehow left me in the perfectly lucid state needed to enjoy interpretive plaques and displays. I liked the ones at Casa Grande. Perhaps I’d learn something about this Tom Mix thing?

But no. I found some covered picnic tables and a stone structure with a shot-up steel horse silhouette. Did Tom own the land at one time? Was he some sort of local folk hero?

I found no more. I think the plaque had been stolen. But then while reading the Wikipedia list of unusual deaths, there he was: Tom Mix. Famous hollywood cowboy. Killed by a suitcase in Florence, AZ.