When I was a child, my family drove across the southwest in our trusty old car. I rode in the backseat imagining myself to be Jason and my older brother would be Hercules. Our car was the Argo on a voyage across the mysterious lands of Texas and New Mexico. We encountered evil waitresses at diners, monstrous gas station attendants and roadside attractions of death. We would head home from Santa Fe with me wrapped in the Indian blanket. It was my Golden Fleece. I would feel victorious, save for the occasional punch in the arm from Hercules.