Nestled into the foothills that make up the northern part of the state, a little-used highway darts through a collection of loosely affiliated buildings that enjoy their anonymity. A post office, a fire station, a gas station-cum-library that cooks a mean bacon-egg if you can get there before noon. Two different strip clubs rent out the same space closest to the interstate offramp, duking it out for jiggling supremacy. There’s no space at the hotel, either; the four rooms have been rented out by the same three people for as long as anyone can remember.