The Greatest American stories begin on the road.
(Preferably from the driver's seat of a Mustang.)
I was 106 miles from Los Angeles, deep in the Palm Desert, ticking past exits for Asbestos Mountain, Cabazon and Idyllwild.
My iced coffee had sweated into a puddle by the gear shift. The temperature outside read 105; it was hot - dry - not Florida sticky, but bright enough to adjust my sunglasses.
In the distance, a palm-filled oasis, full of hipsters, and Frank Sinatra's stale cigarettes.
This is possibly the coolest hotel in all of America, my friends. It used to be a Howard Johnson. (They 'preserved' it, lol). Now tattooed men and women wearing straw fedoras lounge by the pool, while the DJ spins Beck.
I made friends in the pool - we shared some laughs and frozen margaritas, all wonderfully light and meaningless. I swam a few laps and had dinner at the old Howard Johnson restaurant, which now only serves organic meat. Then the sun went down and I took a walk - the nighttime stars were beautiful.
There were hippie trailers and cute little dogs, and, back in my room, a Morroccan caftan. A pile of National Geographics waited for me on the dresser. And possibly the coolest classic rock station on an old-school radio by my bed (which was on when I walked in) - it was playing a song that's been stuck in my head since childhood. Yet its name still eludes me.
Perhaps if I stream it, I'll hear it again.