Right now it is so unbearably hot in my brick oven of an apartment that the very act of typing these words is causing me to perspire in the most disgusting, profuse way. I wish I could afford botox injections for my sweat glands so that I could remain dry and shine-free for the rest of the summer. As it is, it's so hot that I can't even watch TV without needing a shower. It's so hot that I can't wait to go to work, so I can stand in the walk-in. This heat makes me feel desperate and trapped. I need to escape! I need a road trip.

The best summer I ever had in my life was '92 when my best friend and I chucked our jobs and our boyfriends and packed up my beloved (now belated) Saab and sailed south and then west cross-country. We'd both been working feverishly for months to save up for the trip, and we were well prepared financially and pharmaceutically. The day before we left I went to see my High Times writer buddy and he hooked me up with a couple of ounces of mushrooms and pot, and the best advice I've ever gotten: "Only break one law at a time”. Since we'd both just demolished our relationships, we were intent upon getting laid at least once per state, so our first stop was "Vagina Beach”, Virginia, the one-night stand capital of the world. We strapped on our fuck-me shoes and headed out to the strip of bars near the naval base. I'll spare you the gruesome details, and just say that our motto for the rest of the trip was "Go Navy!”. (Okay, I have to add that my guy's name was "Rick Springfield”! How could I resist that?)

From there we headed deeper into the South. For two hallucinating New Yorkers, it was like guest-starring on "The Dukes of Hazard”. Twice we were stopped by the local 5-0, as we crossed state lines into West Virginia and then again in Tennessee. Both times the cop said "I was just wonderin' what you Yankees were doin' in these parts..."Luckily, neither lawman picked up on the fact that we were high as kites, and let us go after some suspicious chit-chat. We cruised the Blue Ridge Highway to Asheville, North Carolina, where we encountered "Ida Mae Childers”, a real-life hillbilly that looked like a small tank in a beer-stained Body Glove t-shirt. We made a pit stop at a mini-mart, and when we returned to the parking lot, we found our car boxed in by this beastly lime green 76 Continental. We waited patiently for the driver to come out of the store before we started maneuvering out. Turned out the driver, Ida Mae, was hiding on the floor of the back seat, just waiting for us to hit her. When we tapped bumpers, she came flying out of the car yelling "Y'ALL JUST TORE UP MY TRANSMISSION AND Y'ALL ARE GONNA PAY FER IT GOD DAMN IT!" When I started arguing with her, she screamed "MY NAME IS IDA MAE CHILDERS AND I'LL TAKE YOUR ELEVATOR TO THE TOP!" Now, I still have no idea what that meant, but it was definitely one of the highlights of the trip. My friend and I decided that while we were south of the Mason-Dixon, we would back into cars as often as possible for the sheer entertainment value! But eventually, her ranting grew tiresome, so I called the police who didn't seem too surprised to see Ida Mae in this situation, and let us go after giving us some pointers on the local bar scene.

Our next big stop was Nashville, where we marveled at "Twitty City"and scammed free drinks at the Opryland Hotel. We even went to the Grand Old Opry. I think it would be safe to say that we were the only people under 55 in the audience. On our way out, we stopped at a mirror just to make sure that we hadn't turned 55 while we were in there, too. And we were definitely the only ones peaking on shrooms as Minnie Pearl did her schtick onstage. We learned that listening to country music in the company of grandparents wasn't at all conducive to expanding one's consciousness. The worst part was the bus ride back to town, when my friend fell on an old lady and I had to hoist her off because she was laughing too hard to move on her own. I almost had to smack her to get her to shut up.

Memphis was a lot more to our liking. Talk about disgustingly hot, though. Ooh, it was awful! But Graceland was fully air-conditioned, so we were in seventh heaven. We were there on the anniversary of Elvis's sayonara, so we were treated to the added bonus of inspecting the hundreds of elaborate flower tributes sent by devoted fans around the world. There must have been a million dollars worth of the cheesiest funeral wreaths ever created. There were pink and yellow teddy bears by the dozen, several Cadillacs, and of course, blue suede shoes rendered lovingly of azaleas. The Sun Studios tour was pretty cool, too. My friend plunked down 25 bucks, and got a recording of herself doing "I Walk the Line"into the same microphone that Johnny Cash himself spit into. Unfortunately, she wanted to hear it every ten minutes for the rest of the trip.

We hit a bit of a dry spell after we left Memphis and sped as quickly as we could through Arkansas and across Texas. We actually crossed the entire Lone Star State in eleven hours. Whether we wanted to or not, we'd end up doing 135-140 miles per hour, because it felt like we were going forty along the perfectly straight, completely flat, barren road. We spent a night in El Paso, fruitlessly searching for a "cool"place to go among the endless strips of mini-malls. We didn't even get laid, so it was a complete bust!

Phoenix made up for it though. Not because it's got such a thriving night life scene, but because my co-pilot's travel agent sister hooked us up with a $500-a-nite sweet suite at The Point Resort, for a measly $35. We had our own private pool, an adorable cabana boy and the best honor bar ever! It was quite a nice change from the Roach Motels we'd been shacking up in. And we felt doubly honored when we learned that not only had Arnold and Maria stayed in that very room, but also Richard Nixon.

After we crossed the Sonora, we neared the end of our journey. We were staying with a friend in LA. Somehow, I miraculously found his house by memory after having been there only once before. We dosed one last time, painted the town red, white and blue and of course, got laid. Then I fell asleep on Manhattan Beach, and woke up with a toxic sunburn. I knew the trip was over. I was about to intern myself for six months in Fresno, (which is up there on my list of worst decisions I ever made in my life) and my friend was flying out of LAX the next day. But even though I ended up looking like an over cooked lobster, and in need of a month at Betty Ford, I had no regrets. It was definitely the best summer ever.