I had started to realize how stressed I was about work about the time that my immune system failed and I lay in bed for a week with a case of Zoster (embarrassing). Listening to the nerves in my spine and side die, I came to the stark realization over the years of working at the bookstore, I'd taken about 5 of the 40 days of vacation I'd accumulated. My doctor had asked if I'd had any recent psychological trauma (loss of a loved one, etc) that might have compromised my immune system. When I told him that the only real stress in my life was work, her prescribed me antibiotics and pain pills, and then suggested I take a vacation. I asked him if he could write the former as a prescription.
Getting the time off itself was stressful, too. I brought it up repeatedly, and it got shuffled off to the next day or the day after that. Finally, I made it a point to talk with my district manager every single day, even going far enough as to follow him into his office and close the door behind us, then stand there, blocking the only exit. This method proved to be the one that worked. I asked for two weeks, unsure how long I would stay on the road.
My primary plan was to visit the Cabazon Dinosaur museum and crash at a hotel I'd read briefly about that was situated in the middle-of-nowhere along the I-5. I hadn't booked reservations or anything for any of the places I was heading, primarily because I wasn't sure where that was.
The first leg of the trip was relatively uneventful, though I stopped at the General Patton Museum. My favorite part of this location, other than watching children eat ice-cream right next to rusting war machines, is that it's really just a giant gift shop and collection of various military junk. They've got everything from typewriters to carved artillery shells to nazi flags to Desert Storm canteens in their museum. Out back is the collection of rusted tanks sitting ponderously surrounded by chain link fence, and visitors are asked to not climb on them. You heard right- I didnt' get to climb on a tank, much less into one. Who wants to just look at a tank from the outside, anyway? It's like having an unloaded gun pointed at you. What I want is to be in the drivers seat, or even just the gunner's seat. What, are they worried I'm going to scratch the thing?
I left. Headed to the dinosaurs, I stopped a couple of times to smoke and drink some water, then would resume barreling down the interstate at a 100 miles an hour. When I hit the turn off for the Cabazon Dinosaurs, I felt a sense of strange accomplishment, but also worry. I had made such incredible time that the road behind me was a blur. I was driving like it was work.
I will say these three things about the Cabazon Dinosaurs.
1. They are really big. Like, four stories tall. Way bigger than any real dinosaur ever was, so big that the gift shop is inside the Apatosaurus. You enter through his "tail." The T-Rex is large enough that you can get a family of four in his mouth, and they'll let you do just that.
2. The greasy spoon place next door, called "The Wheel" has really, really good hamburgers. I could smell them outside, AND they have an Aero Fighters 2 arcade machine that's in pretty good condition. They have Crusin' USA, but who cares? AERO FIGHTERS 2. 
3. It's an Intelligent Design museum. You read that right- I crawled into the ass of a dinosaur, excited to buy a T-shirt with a T-rex on it, only to find that basically every piece of junk in the place is branded with the slogan "By Design, not by Chance" (their emphasis). They have movies running full time extolling the science of their beliefs. I don't know where you stand on the whole creation-of-the-universe thing, but I think we can all agree that luring children (and the child-like) with dinosaurs and then giving them CREATIONISM is alot like using Batman to get kids to eat McDonalds. Or being a rapist that dresses up like a dinosaur before violating someone. That's how I felt upon leaving. Dinosaur raped.I headed north, along the I-5, towards Harris Ranch. It had been suggested I stop there, it being "quaint and homey." and the one picture I saw made it seem like it was probably just that.
It's not.
I'll start by addressing the fact that, as I pulled into the sprawling restaurant-hotel complex, a god-damned plane landed. Not in the distance, as one might be accustomed to, but at the hotel. It's not as though it was a 747 or anything, but this place has a 2,800 feet long, paved, and lighted runway on site. It's that kind of hotel. I didn't have reservations.
Luckily, they did have a room available, but the cost ate up about 3 shares of what I'd planned to spend on hotels along the way. The room was much bigger than anything I would ever need to be comfortable, but they cut me something of a deal because it was on the far end of the complex and situated alongside a stairwell. The porn selection on the TV was pretty extensive.
I went to the bar to get drunk. A couple of gin and tonics later, I tried my best to strike up conversation with anyone around, but it was clear I wasn't really welcome. The guy at the bar next to me was a professional sommelier, and everyone else in the restaurant were families enjoying an extended stay. THIS was their vacation- hanging out at the ranch. Even the bartender (a redheaded nursing student) had no desire to speak to me whatsoever- I drank my drinks and went to bed.
The next morning, I heard a rapping on the stairwell door at about 6am. It went on for about 10 minutes, so I finally roused myself, put on some pants and went to let whoever forgot their keys or whatever in- and nearly pissed myself. Outside, banging against the glass door, was a raven easily the size of a small dog, and the sight of me peering out at him drove him into a frenzy. He started hurtling his whole weight against the door repeatedly, scratching and pecking and clawing and spattering bright red blood all over the glass. I think I stood their dumbfounded for about a minute. Then I went back into my room. He kept it up for at least 20 minutes longer. When I went to check on the silence, there was blood spattered all over the stairwell and little footprints everywhere.
When I went down to the lobby to pay, they asked me how the room was and I told them about the bird. The receptionist didn't even blink. She informed me it was the same bird who had been trying to get in the last few nights through the same stairwell door.
No wonder they gave me a deal.
Come back tomorrow for Part 2.
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