This guy I know, PJ, was driving by himself from the Palisades up to Las Vegas for a big meeting.
He was cruising along I15 with his favorite tunes blaring and with nothing but time. He left himself a good two-hour cushion once he got into Vegas to get organized, tuck his shirt in – and be all set to dazzle.
He looked up at the sign. Baker, California. “Home of the World’s Largest Thermometer” and “The Gateway to Death Valley.”
He was probably thinking he’d rather live in a town that was a “Gateway to the Pacific Ocean.” Or to Lake Louise. Or the Best Schools in America. Not to Death Valley.
And he was probably driving along wondering who the geniuses were sitting around a conference table thinking of a name for their new town, and somebody raised their hand and said, “I got an idea. How about Death Valley? That’s fun.”
PJ was probably thinking stuff like that.
Two hours to go. Life is good.
Out of nowhere, the front of his car erupts steam, making some crazy-loud clanking noises t…
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