The American Dream has been beaten and kicked long enough. He quits his job, fires his attorney, and leaves a wife who won’t notice he’s
gone until she has no one to dance with when the ball drops on New Year's. With a case of Ancient Age and a trunkload of cigarettes, he checks
into a motel to write a memoir about the rise and fall of an elegant, though deeply flawed idea—his dirty life and times. All of them. He begins, I
am going to turn this prince back into a frog and croak frog songs into the gravel pit of midnight. Ah, New Jersey, you son-of-a-bitchen crotch
puncher, I’m here. Meet me by the flag pole after school. Hence this bloodstream of anonymous drifters and wishers. Strivers. Near Missers.
On paper, they sound like every other character who ends up in a motel story. There’s the man paying his debts the hard way and the man
avoiding debts. There’s the woman on the run and the woman who treats her body like a garage sale. There’s the immigrant who hears the
land making promises and the upstanding citizen at war with his unpretty instincts. And of course there are plans that double as schemes and
bad ideas. And killing. Lots of killing. But remember one thing about these ordinary driftings . . . a frog who used to be a prince is singing about
them . . . and he knows no one is listening . . . and he’s brushing his teeth with whiskey . . . which leads to a certain boldness, for which you will
have to forgive him. After all, he used to be a prince. We were going to call this The Frog’s Opera, but we promised our backers not to get too
fancy. Motel Detritus felt a little cruel. We settled on Motel Americana after we lost a better title in a card game. Secretly we loved it.