Idioms, folktales, parables, fables, allegories, and metaphors, ad infinitum, have been passed down for generations. And each subsequent generation has created its own anecdotes to be included in the proverbial ball of knowledge before it is again passed down to those coming up. The need to encapsulate an involved human experience into a succinct story or a simple sentence has given humanity a treasure trove of warnings and wisdom. After all, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it” is something worth pondering and remembering. After a heartbreak, misery and despair might reign evermore supreme if Alfred Lord Tennyson had not given us “’tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Indeed, through all the pain, it is.
What I have to offer to the pile of human pondering is not nearly as liberating as Tennyson’s fourteen words, but my subject matter is a pig and a chicken—not unrequited or lost love. So (if you don’t mind) give a boy a break and lower the bar a tad. Thank you.
I jumped on the dot-com bubble in 1995 and, at the time, made the best of it that I could before the bubble popped in early 2000. During that time, I developed and maintained numerous websites, ranging from mom-and-pop shops to major corporate presences on the web. From the owner of a niche website, whom I had been with for many years, came the story of the ham-and-egg breakfast.
The niche website owner (I’ll call him Posner) and I were considering a major upgrade to his site. It was not going to be cheap, but it would leave the competition in the proverbial dust. When Posner and I were reviewing the final changes and additions to the specifications document, he asked for the updated price. When I told him what it would cost, there was silence. I broke the stillness by saying, “Posner, I’ll be with you every step of the way, overseeing each process and every person.” I had been Posner’s only web developer since the launching of his site in 1999.
It was 2007 when Posner was pondering the costs associated with upgrading his website. After I disclosed the costs to him and told him that I’d be watching everything, that I’d be involved every step of the way, Posner said to me: “John, have I ever told you the story of the ham-and-egg breakfast?”
Someone else’s melodrama is not my thing, so I quickly said, “No! And I really don’t have the time to hear it.”
Posner insisted it would be a short story, so I relented. Posner continued, “This is the story of the ham-and-egg breakfast. The chicken was involved—but the pig was committed.”
Touché, I thought to myself before saying, “I get it. I’m involved with my time as a paid service provider, but in addition to your time, you are also cash committed.” Right then and there I realized that while it was true that Posner and I were in it together, our participation was from two very different vantage points. I was involved—but he was committed.
In late August 2011 I left Las Vegas, Nevada, on my motorcycle for a cross-country ride. I was headed to Reno, Nevada, via Key West, Florida; Washington, DC; Provincetown, Massachusetts; San Francisco, California; and Napa Valley, California, before reaching Reno, Nevada. From there I’d simply drop back down to Las Vegas. I was taking the long way home.
Posner’s ham-and-egg story would ring in my mind before I had ridden one hundred miles of the first part of my cross-country trip. His words would slam into me again before I stopped for the first night’s slumber. Out on the road on a motorcycle, it’s just the bike and you—there’s really nothing else. Before I was to sleep after that first day and evening of riding, the gods wanted to know if I was involved in the ride—or if I was committed.
In 2011 motorists were still permitted to cross over Hoover Dam. It’s closed to vehicles now due to Osama bin Laden’s past conquests (burn in Hell without virgins, Osama). During my Las Vegas residencies I had ridden my bike across the Hoover Dam many times to buy Powerball and Mega Million tickets at Rosie’s Den Café in Arizona because—and this confounds most people—the state of Nevada, which is synonymous with gambling, does not have a lottery. This is because of the power casino lobbyists wield over state legislators. I always joke that the reason Nevada does not have a lottery is because its citizens understand odds.
Rosie’s Den Café used to be located on US Highway 93 in Arizona, thirty-two miles south of the Hoover Dam. Rosie’s was a traveler’s best shot at grabbing agreeable grub between the Hoover Dam and the outskirts of Kingman, Arizona, where US Highway 93 connects to Interstate 40, at exit 48. Before Rosie’s permanently closed, motorcyclists from Las Vegas used getting lottery tickets as an excuse to go riding. Rosie’s Den was the quintessential American greasy spoon, a biker’s best friend when on the road. Rosie’s was a great place for travelers to find respite and see motorcycles and chat with bikers while enjoying an Arizona omelet or a burger and fries.
Every time I pulled into Rosie’s, I left with lottery tickets. The reason I buy lottery tickets is that I have not found anything else that destroys my dreams faster: buy a ticket, dream, wait a few days for the dreams to be crushed when my numbers don’t manifest, repeat. I suppose that only love at first sight can lay waste to dreams faster. For some reason, we humans can’t seem to get enough of either dream: hitting it big or finding true love—both being rather elusive.
The day I pulled out of Las Vegas on my bike for the cross-country ride, I had stopped at Rosie’s around eleven a.m. after spending some time hanging around the dam, sittin’ and sippin’ coffee while enjoying the view. The Hoover Dam is a great place to see the majesty of the surrounding landscape and the imprisoned Lake Mead while witnessing humanity’s moxie. Building that dam was a mammoth undertaking. It rises 726 feet and spans 1,244 feet, with a crest width of 45 feet, all concrete. It was built between 1931 and 1936 at a cost of 49 million dollars. If it were built in 2019, it would cost 904.5 million dollars.
Hoover Dam holds back Lake Mead, which is the largest reservoir in America when full, and supplies water to Las Vegas for its fountains, pools, and drinking, hygienic, and recreational needs. The reservoir’s catchment area is 167,800 square miles. Halfway across the dam’s span lies the Nevada–Arizona border. Standing there, you could spread your legs and live life in two different time zones at the same time. Whoopee!
When I arrived at Rosie’s Den, I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a Coke. I also bought myself the obligatory dream slip emblazoned with numbers—lottery numbers, which if they were to coincide with plastic balls adorned with digits that shot out of a hopper via forced air on “lottery night” would provide wealth beyond what this poor old boy would know what to do with.
When buying lottery tickets, if the lottery ticket salesperson seems to be open to communication, or it is evident that the day has taken its toll on him or her, I pick a number a few million dollars above the lottery prize, and I say, “I’m glad the lottery is only at 115 million dollars, because if it were at 120 million, I could not play. I only know what to do with 115 million dollars. I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with the other five million.” The responses are as varied as the people I say it to, but the common denominator is Give it to me.
Give it to me . . . It’s a universal sentiment when sharing extra money with someone. Darwin was right: the evolution of life is not that complicated; we all share common traits. Survival of self is first and foremost, followed by survival of the species. “Give it to me” so that my survival is secured is the instinct that drives that Darwinian response to extra money. And I thought I was just being funny. There’s nothing funny about our money—or our survival.
Surviving on a bike is a precarious undertaking under the best of situations. Road conditions, traffic, weather patterns, wildlife, and Homo sapiens each presents its own Darwinian challenges. Each, in a New York second, can take a rider out, resulting in “a bad ending,” as bikers say when a brother or sister rider crashes and burns. When riding, each situation and every second must be constantly analyzed, updated, and successfully navigated. Complacency on a bike can end your life before you exhale. On the ride away from Rosie’s Den, the gods were going to remind me of that in no uncertain terms.
About fifteen minutes south of Rosie’s, while I was roaring along on the other side of 75 miles per hour, the wind exploded. The sudden gust tossed sand up into the air, feeling like thousands of needles pricking my face, neck, forehead, and anywhere else flesh was exposed. The wind jerked the bike, leaning it hard and fast to my left. I corrected, straining to lean the bike back into the wind, to the right, to counter the blowing force. Then, as is commonplace in desert windstorms because of the hot and cold pockets of air, I caught a pocket of cooler air, and the force was not as great, and the bike again jerked and leaned hard in the opposite direction. All the while the sand was spattering my face. If not for my safety glasses, I would have been blind from keeping my eyes open to avoid a bad ending, or dead from running off the road or crashing into a vehicle. With the hot winds of Hell surrounding me and sand pounding into me, I screamed “STOP IT!” to no one in particular.
Be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it, and its replacement could be less desirable. The second I screamed “Stop it!” there came a flash in the sky, immediately followed by an earsplitting thunderclap, and the heavens relieved themselves on me (probably because of some karmic atonement thing). The deluge weighed the sand down, and the pricking on my face subsided some but was replaced by piercing rain. The sudden drop in temperature, due to the falling rain, tamed the winds. The wind and sand were both replaced by a sheer sheet of water. All that happened in under thirty seconds, or at least it seemed that quick, leaving me to ride through pouring rain toward blue sky off in the horizon, some fifteen minutes away in Kingman, Arizona. That was when Posner’s ham-and-egg-breakfast story popped into my mind. That was when I knew I was committed to the ride and not simply involved.
Bikers change clothes, take shelter, eat, drink, sleep, relieve themselves, and shower in strange places when the road is long and hard. All by choice. We ride until we are exhausted, until our minds are free, and we are at peace and all is well within. I have always equated riding long and hard on a bike trip to a great big mental eraser; it wipes away the pain and shame that comes from navigating this life.
Hunter S. Thompson, on the opening page of his book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, quotes British author Dr. Samuel Johnson by writing: “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” That’s what riding a bike does for some. For those of us who feel like caged animals in this modern, encased life, when we ride long and hard we are like beasts that have escaped captivity, and the pain of being captured dissipates, and we are again as we were meant to be—born free!
The sky’s weather calmed down as I pulled out of Kingman on Route 66 en route to the southern wall of the Grand Canyon. It’s truly a sight to see. No picture, no IMAX film, no Ken Burns PBS documentary, no written description can do the Grand Canyon justice, and I won’t attempt to do so here. I will only state this—go see it! When I finally saw the Grand Canyon for the first and only time, I stood in stunned silence, awestruck, muted by the sight of it. At long last I fully understood the final scene of 1991’s Academy Award–, Golden Globe–, and the Writers Guild of America–nominated movie The Grand Canyon. In its final scene, the main characters go the Grand Canyon, and, upon gazing out on its immensity, they stand silent, and even the angst-ridden teen is moved. Ah, I muttered to myself as an epiphany surfaced while my gaze was transfixed on nothing and everything in front of me, staring out at the vast expanse of the Grand Canyon.
I had no idea where I’d be spending the night down on eastbound Interstate 40. I thought maybe around Holbrook, Arizona, because in the morning I planned on riding through the Apache-Sitgreaves National Forest and Fort Apache before winding my way down to Interstate 10 on my way to the Keys, and many spots in between. I gave one last glance over my shoulder while walking away from the edge of the Grand Canyon; then I hopped on the Deuce, brought it to life, and headed south toward Flagstaff, where the weather can change as quickly as down in the Texas Panhandle.
Flagstaff allowed me to pass unscathed by rain, but at the bottom of the mountain to her east, near Twin Arrows, the sky again dumped on me. I had had enough, I surmised, standing under a rotting metal canopy next to two holes in the ground where fuel pumps once stood. I had pulled into an abandoned gas station, trying to avoid the rain. I looked up through the many small holes in the decaying fuel island’s canopy, where the rain came through and fell on me. I stood where only ghosts of the past remained, and they were no comfort to me. I was a weary and tired traveler that night. It was around 10:00 p.m. when I decided that I’d be seeking shelter and slumbering in Winslow, Arizona. She was just a short jaunt down the road. When the rain subsided some, I changed into dry clothes and rode the final stretch to Winslow with my ears swept back in the wind and my chin defiantly pointed up in the misty night air. I exited Interstate 40 for Winslow, riding down Route 66 at about half past ten. That’s when The Band’s song “The Weight” entered my mind: “I pulled into Nazareth, was feeling ’bout half past dead. I just need some place where I can lay my head. Hey, mister, can you tell me, where a man might find a bed?”
Basic customer service is rare these days; not the term—but the actual service. When stumbling upon the endangered good customer service, I am shocked. Good customer service used to be so commonplace in America that we never shared with anyone that we received it. The adage used to be that if we were treated right, we told one person; if we were treated wrong, we told everyone. Now, like everything else in America, from national politics to the PTA’s fund-raising bake sale, everything is inverted. It’s like we are living in an alternate universe where up is down, in is out, wrong is right, and we are impolite, rude, and self-absorbed by default instead of having the de facto traits of graciousness, respectfulness, and caring. Basic human courtesy is gone, and we are poorer for it. We are suffering as a society because of that, and because facts are dismissed and replaced with alternative facts. Alternative facts are falsehoods and have no place in a free society. Alternative facts are used and deployed by authoritarians, autocrats, despots, dictators, and tyrants to mislead the masses. In politics, no one is more efficiently trumping truth with distortions (and flat-out lies) than President Trump and his cantankerous crew; this is especially true of one of President Trump’s main advisers, the combative Kellyanne Conway. I’ll give her this, though: she’s deceptively deadly when debating, and she’s extremely dauntless! Just like a good little blind minion should be.
Route 66 is an iconic American highway. It was where America got her kicks, en route from Chicago, Illinois, to Santa Monica, California, or vice versa, or any parts between. Not that long ago, Americans sneaked away to Route 66 on weekends, momentarily slipping away from it all and lodging at one of its many motels. Many kicks were gotten out there on 66, resulting in Highway 66 babies. It was all the rage from the thirties through the sixties. Parts of it now enjoy a renaissance. Route 66 has aliases too: “The Will Rogers Highway”; “The Main Street of America”; and “The Mother Road.”
Exiting Interstate 40 at Winslow’s exit on Route 66 takes you straight down “The Main Street of America,” where old buildings remain from 66’s heyday. Those old buildings are now occupied by chic businesses such as hotels, diners, and repair and antique shops. On that night, I was looking for “The Mother Road” to provide me some comfort, a respite on day one of the bike run. I pulled my Deuce into a cheap motel’s dimly lit parking lot. The “L” in the neon “Welcome” sign was flickering from unlit to momentarily lit before returning dark, making it a flashing beacon reading “WE COME.” Route 66’s moniker, Get Your Kicks, came to mind, and I wondered if the missing “L” was by design, signaling something . . . like kinky kicks.
Winslow was basically asleep when I arrived on that nondescript late August Tuesday night. I had to ring a bell for service at the motel. Then I had to wait outside for the proprietor to open the door. After I registered and a key was issued, I returned to the Deuce to unsaddle it. To remove the T-bag and other items strapped to the bike by bungee cords. The T-bag contained necessities and other items I perceived I needed but were essentially encumberments.
HD is short for Harley-Davidson, but as any Harley owner will tell you, it really stands for “hundred dollars,” because, at a minimum, 98 percent of what you’ll buy from Harley-Davidson will cost more than $100. Most of the items cost much more, and many of them are cheaply made. That was reconfirmed to me when I removed the T-bag and discovered that Harley-Davidson’s sissy bar’s leather was wrapped around foam padding attached by glue to a plastic backing, itself attached to the sissy bar with a screw. On its first use, it fell apart and was rendered useless. I was screwed—and out a few hundred dollars to boot. I’d have to deal with that repair matter before departing Winslow in the morning. After I managed to get the T-bag and other items in order, and when I had ceased cursing Harley-Davidson, I headed for the room.
Roy, my half brother, was burned in a fire in the late nineties. It was a “caused accident”; a gas can fell out of a pickup’s tailgateless bed and exploded under Roy’s vehicle as he was removing his passenger’s child from the danger. The child was unscathed, but Roy was flown by a Life Flight helicopter to a trauma center. He endured well over a year of surgeries and treatment. Through that tragedy Roy and I reconnected. On certain days, I assume he feels that he was twice bitten by fate.
In the eighties there was a fire-awareness PSA campaign (that continues today). Its tagline is “Learn Not to Burn.” The thought of fire burning me has always freaked me out, and even more so in the aftermath of Roy’s encounter with it. This is kind of strange, because in the eighties I was a fire-eater, using fire-eating as an entertainment art form. I understand that this makes me a walking contradiction. I have been called worse, much worse, but be that as it may, the thought of burning freaks me out to the point that I obsess over “Learn Not to Burn.” Death will come and find me, and that’s just fine and dandy. I just prefer it not be by fire or drowning (another idiosyncrasy of mine, considering that I have performed underwater escapes as a magician). Nevertheless, I am always aware of either’s potential to take me out, and I always look to mitigate the circumstances wherein either could occur.
When I opened the door to my motel room that night, I immediately noticed that there was no smoke alarm, just an empty bracket where an alarm had once been. I hightailed it to the office and explained the situation. The clerk said it was not working, and he had forgotten to replace it. He then went to a storage closet and dug through a box of what I perceived to be junk. Eventually a dirty, greasy smoke alarm was retrieved, and he said, “I’ll put this one in.”
“That’s fine, but I’m not staying in that room,” I said.
“I’ll move you to a different room,” he offered.
“I mean I’m not staying here,” I replied.
“There’s no refund,” he said.
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll be calling the fire department then.”
Never in my life, not before or since that night, have I had a refund processed as quickly and resolutely as that one. With no room and with an inoperable sissy bar, I struggled for thirty minutes to semisecure my T-bag and other items on the bike so that I could precariously seek out other lodging. I left my budget considerations in that cheap motel’s parking lot and headed straight for a high-end joint, where I assumed all would be well—and it was.
That night, after checking in at a hotel for the second time, I found a dive bar not far away. It was heavily stocked with white spirits, with minimal Scotch or Irish whiskey choices. I opted for a neat Maker’s Mark bourbon (my go-to when my options are limited). I requested a triple pour with a Bacardi Coke back. They arrived in no time flat. I chatted up the barkeep, mentioning my disgust with HD and their shitty $300 sissy bar. I asked if he knew where I might find an upholsterer and a metal fabricator. “Yep,” he said. “And both are in one place.”
I was sure that the day’s travels had overtaken me and that I had heard him wrong. But he reassured me that my sissy bar troubles would be solved with one-stop shopping. The bartender gave me a business name, its address, and its phone number, with directions written on the back of one of the bar’s cardboard coasters. When he handed me the coaster, he said, “Tell ’em I sent you.”
By the time the glasses of liquid relief were emptied, I was full of hope for a smooth repair to the sissy bar when I awoke the next morning. Now I was down for some heavy rest. I moseyed my way back to my suite with a view and fell peacefully asleep while the trials and tribulations of the day faded away. From a small alarm clock radio, Train’s “Calling All Angels” was serenading me to sleep: “And I’m calling all angels. I’m calling all you angels. I won’t give up if you don’t give up.”
At 7:00 a.m. sharp, I awoke with a start. I thought I’d slept in that firetrap motel and smelled smoke. It took a few seconds to realize that the last remnants of a dream had followed me from slumber to sunrise . . . which was slithering through the thick lace curtains and scattering across the suite. I grabbed the phone on the nightstand, ordered a pot of joe, and jumped into the shower.
After morning duties and some coffee, I was fully refreshed. I called Big Lowry’s Customs and B&W Upholstery, located at 250 North Hicks Avenue, Winslow, Arizona. I explained the quandary I was in, and per the bartender’s instructions from the night before, I said, “He told me to tell you that he said to call you.”
On that morning, Big Lowry’s Customs and B&W Upholstery was the answer to Train’s “calling all you angels” refrain. Over the phone, I explained to Andy Lowry that I was on a cross-country ride and that my sissy bar needed urgent care. Andy told me to “Come on down.” He explained that he wouldn’t be there and told me to ask for Paul when I arrived. “He’ll hook you up,” Andy said.
Paul no only hooked me up with a repair to last through Armageddon, but only charged me $125 for parts and labor to fabricate a metal back for the sissy bar, install a new, denser foam backing, and cover it all in new leather. While Paul had the sissy bar off the Deuce for repairs, I set out to wash the bike, and then I headed out to stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona.
Paul had told me about a park located on a corner: Standin’ on the Corner Park is a public park located in Winslow, Arizona. It opened in 1999. It takes its name and theme from the Eagles song “Take It Easy,” which was written by Jackson Browne and Glenn Frey. “Well, I’m a-standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, and such a fine sight to see” is one of the song’s most recognizable verses, second only to the chorus of “Take it easy.” Near the corner of the park stands a statue of a man with a guitar next to him. In 2016, Glenn Frey, who cowrote “Take It Easy,” died. After Glenn’s death, a statue was unveiled at the park in his likeness.
After giving the bike a bath, I headed for the corner to see if the Deuce and I were such a fine sight to see. At my age it is always the bike that is the fine sight to see. This is true. It’s simply a fact of life. And I am just fine with that. Aging takes its toll. It’s natural. It’s nature’s way of telling us something. If we listen very closely, we just might find peace and acceptance of not only our life, but of the lives of others. Hopefully, as we age, we realize that so much of what caused us strife, disdain, and conflict with each other was simply silly, and nothing but wasted time . . . which is running away from us, never to return. Aging makes me want to make the most of each day.
At “the corner” the Deuce was all the rage. I parked it right in the park, right on the corner next to the statue. The tourists exploring Route 66 sure got a kick out of it sitting there, alone. I was across the street on the general store’s bench, enjoying a Coke and the smiles of the people walking by my bike. A few figured out it was my bike and sauntered over to me and asked, “Is that yours?” motioning over at the Deuce. Others walked right up and said, “Nice bike!” I enjoyed chatting with both types of people that day. The ones who knew what to say and how to say it. Who had some knowledge of the bike world. Who knew to say, “Nice bike.” And the other ones for whom that day may have been their first encounter with a bike and its rider, and who inquired of me, “Is that your bike?” They said things like “She’s a beauty” and “I like it” and “Is it a Harley?” and “I always wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle.”
Even though a bike may be leaning on its kickstand, I promise you people envision it going down the road. They hear it roar. They long for the freedom it represents. It’s why they stare at bikes and talk to the riders. It’s how they vicariously ride off in the sunset, away from the cares of the day and the burdens of life.
It was just before noon when I decided it was time to head back to Big Lowry’s Customs and B&W Upholstery and settle the bill. Before I left the corner, I decided to have a picture taken of me and the Deuce standing on a corner. I then texted the picture to some friends. The text read “Standing on a Corner” and contained nothing else except for the picture of me and the bike. My friend Melissa, whom I had met at the Golden Nugget casino’s main bar in Las Vegas back in 2008, and with whom I then helped celebrate her birthday, texted me right back with “In Winslow Arizona.” A few minutes later she texted me again, explaining that she had not seen the picture when she first responded to the text, but after she had seen the picture she wrote that that was the best text she had ever received.
So I decided to take a picture of the bike at every state line I crossed and include a thought of mine and text both to friends. I also did the same thing in select cities, including a lyric that related to the town.
As I was getting ready to mount the bike to head back to Big Lowry’s Customs and B&W Upholstery, a boy of maybe nine years old, about the age I was when I first thought I’d like to own a motorbike, came around the corner and, upon seeing the Deuce, exclaimed to no one in particular: “Nice bike!” Then he looked at me and said, “That’s yours!” It was not a question; rather, it was a statement of fact.
“Yep,” I said. Then I asked the little boy, “Do you have a bike?”
“I got a bicycle,” he said. “I can’t wait to get a motorbike.”
“I can’t wait to get a motorbike” the little boy had said to me. That was my exact sentiment when I was about his age, riding my bicycle while waiting impatiently to grow up so I could get a motorbike. Some things are universal. Like a boy with a bicycle yearning for a motorbike. With a lump in my throat and thankful that a motorbike and I had found each other, I rode away from that little boy as he watched. I hope that he got his motorbike. I hope that he rides it long and hard. I think of that child often, and it always brings a knowing smile to my face—and at times a teardrop to my eyes. I hope that our paths cross again so that I can say “Nice bike!” to him.
Back at Big Lowry’s Customs and B&W Upholstery, I added a token of my appreciation to the folded-up bills that I tucked into Paul’s palm for the repairs. I attached the sissy bar to the bike after expressing my gratitude and shaking hands. I shared with Paul the events of “day one” of my ride: the windstorm and the thunderstorm after leaving Rosie’s, followed by the evening’s rain en route to Winslow. I told them of the route that lay before me, Florida’s Keys and all.
I then returned to the nice—fire code compliant—suite I had rented for the night, and then I filled the T-bag and attached it to the Deuce. As I rode away from Winslow, I was grateful for the experience, for what had transpired over the last thirty-six hours of my life. I was reminded yet again that good things can come from bad moments.
As I mentioned, customer service is hard to find these days, and good customer service is as scarce as respectful dialogue in politics. On that day, while hanging out in Winslow, Arizona, I was awestruck by the service I had received and by the people I had met in my brief time there.
Here’s a little secret: bikers who are traveling long and hard have kindred spirits everywhere, and every so often we find each other. When we met while on a long and hard bike ride, we have no problem properly explaining ourselves to each other—and understanding each other at a deeper level than during encounters where no bike is present.
If I had a bike right now I’d jump on it and head out to go stand on a corner in Winslow, Arizona. If you’re passing by Winslow, I suggest that you take time to hang out, to stand on a corner in . . .
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