It is 1996. I am driving south on 59,

just past what I had just learned was called "The Arklatex."

I have gotten sick of my life in Salem, Arkansas, and decided to move to Houston TX.

I have no air conditioning in my ex-police-car, and the inside door handle on the driver's side doesn't work.

I have hit a pothole on the trip, sending my right front hubcap racing ahead of me and off into the unknown.

I have just hit this large white bird of some species I have never seen before. It ricochets off my windshield, over my car, and I see in my rearview mirror it bounces on the highway behind me like one of those big, soft softballs the retarded children play with.

I hope it is not endangered. Not out of any concern for the species, mind you, but because I don't want the government after me.

But on the rest of the trip southward, I see a bunch more of them, so my concerns are alleviated. What the hell are those things, anyway? Friggin' seagulls? I'm not anywhere near the ocean yet.

I'm not even in chachalaca territory yet. I'd just entered Tejano territory.

I drive on.

And this song comes on the radio. Trends start on the coasts, including apparently the Gulf Coast, in America, and work their way toward the heartland over time. Those Bart Simpson window cling thingies took almost a year to get there.

The checkerboard loafers in the 80's never did get there. Until Omar Newberry moved in from California.

But I digress.

This song had not made it to Salem, Arkansas, yet.

My first thought was that I had never heard anything like it. My second thought was that it was so catchy it would peak and become trite almost instantly.

Ladies and gentlemen, for today's Song of the Day, I give you . . .

... Macarena!