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This archival content was written, edited, and published prior to LAist's acquisition by its current owner, Southern California Public Radio ("SCPR"). Content, such as language choice and subject matter, in archival articles therefore may not align with SCPR's current editorial standards. To learn more about those standards and why we make this distinction, please click here.
Driving Down Route 66
LAist is on a secret road trip. We had heard the magic and majesty of Route 66 so we left LA at 4:20p, got an oil change in Pomona and the mechanic recommended about $250 of other minor repairs. We had some work to do and wifi was flowing so we flipped him the credit card and said go for it.
Because, you see, our road trip doesn't end in Chicago where the most famous Route ends - our journey will take us up through Canada, down the East coast and then back home to Hollywood.
Unfortunately the mechanic either never filled the oil chamber up with 10w-40 after he drained out the old stuff, or he didnt tighten the plug because somewhere in Arizona the Oil light started flickering on.
Right around the same time the gasoline needle said Fumes.
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So of course we said a little prayer, in fact we even shut the windows in the 100 degree night so as to be more aerodynamic.
There wasn't a gas station for at least 10 miles when we took the picture below, but we had the Elvis station on the Sirius satelite stereo and we had lots of shoulder to steer over to in case of emergency. Plus we were pooped from driving all day so if need be, the back seat would double as an improptu bed.
Fortunately we coasted into the Mobil station and there we met Fred, a recent high school grad who was hanging out at the gas station because there's nothing else to do in town, he said.
Bro crawled under the car, let the plug out to show us that there was maybe a quarter cup of oil in the car, tightened it up real good and poured in three quarts of the good stuff.
Route 66 somehow had let us drive miles and miles and miles in the pitch black Arizona desert with no gas and no oil.
The magic had already begun and we had barely broken into the Tootsie Rolls.
And if things couldn't get weirder, St. Fred refused a tip, a beer, a candy bar, or anything. But he did give us his MySpace address so that we could be "friends." At that point we realized we just may have hallucinated the whole thing. Or we were in store for a wild road trip which had started off with a (near) bang.
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Your support for independent local news is critical. With federal funding for public media gone, LAist faces a $1.7 million yearly shortfall. Speaking frankly, how much reader support we receive now will determine the strength of this reliable source of local information now and for years to come.
This work is only possible with community support. Every investigation, service guide, and story is made possible by people like you who believe that local news is a public good and that everyone deserves access to trustworthy local information.
That’s why we’re asking you to stand up for independent reporting that will not be silenced. With more individuals like you supporting this public service, we can continue to provide essential coverage for Southern Californians that you can’t find anywhere else. Become a monthly member today to help sustain this mission. It just takes 1 minute to donate below.
Thank you for understanding how essential it is to have an informed community and standing up for free press.
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