Dear Blog

Dear Blog,

This evening finds me lounging comfortably in my room at the fabulous Holiday Inn Express on I94 near historic Belleville, Michigan, "where luxury smells like rotten feet." I have come here, to Belleville, to accommodate a 7 am meeting at which I will be treated with respect and dignity. No, wait, that's not it... what are the words I am seeking? Oh, yes, derision and ignominy. I always get those mixed up.

Anyhow, I mentioned Belleville is historic. Apparently on this site for the last 50 years, exactly nothing has happened. Can you believe it? I went to go take in the site - a Cracker Barrel restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. But you don't walk to Cracker Barrel. You drive your pickup truck or other suitably annoyingly large vehicle. And while there is no sign that says "Black People Welcome, But Not Recommended", the name of the place says it all. I mean, "Cracker Barrel" is not exactly the enigma code.

Resisting the innate temptation to sample their 32 new gravies, I skipped white-people mecca and went instead to The Twisted Rooster. Now, this was surreal because this restaurant concept actually started in Grand Rapids. My home. Where I am not now. I was not greeted with the pomp and circumstance I had expected. There was no scepter, or mayoral hat, or anything given to me that would properly denote my status as a Grand Rapidian. Instead, I was seated at a high-top table in the middle of the bar to underscore the fact that I was alone. This is where I always get seated. And I learned a long time ago that in restuarant-ees, "may I please be seated in a booth" really means, "please add all your bodily fluids to my food before serving it to me."

"Hey everybody!" shouted the host as he lead me on a 2 person conga line the long way around the crowded dining room. "This guy's alone! Wow, what a loser!" My waitress apologetically brought me a beer. I told her I wasn't drinking and she said that was OK, the manager wanted me to have it at the table so people would think I was having fun. At least they only charged me half price. Wee.

I ordered chicken strips because lobster mac 'n' cheese seemed decadent. I am on the company dime after all. To my surprise they did have Grey Goose, so a couple, (few, several, half-dozen) vodka martinis were in order. I'm just kidding. I didn't drink any martinis, either. I mixed the Grey Goose with Cristal to have champagne cocktails... martinis are so douche. I ordered my chicken strips with a side of ranch, since I didn't like the sound of all their "signature", (read combinations so odd that no one would want to serve them, let alone steal them from you), sauces.

The chicken strips came out and they were big. The ranch was comically small. A thimble full of ranch. I have sneezed more ranch. I have farted and made the room smell like ranch for a half hour. This was not a side of ranch. It wasn't even a side of 4th floor efficiency apartment. It was pathetic.

"Look at the big fat guy eating alone with his little ranch cup. I bet he'll lick it out when he's done..." I would normally have asked straight away for another ranch, but decided to make do. I could tell people were judging me. I don't know what they were looking at me for, they're the ones that live in Belleville.

You'd think with a name like Belleville there would be pretty girls here. In my random sampling, statistically speaking there are zero. Zero pretty girls in Belleville. They should call it "Trailertrashceluliteville." Nah, probably wouldn't fit on the sign.

After eating hastily, I have now come back to the room. I admire the man in the room next door to me. It is clear that even though he is profoundly deaf, he will not simply give in to closed captioning. I say, good for you... What's that? GOOD FOR YOU! TURN IT UP! I don't want to miss final Jeopardy! Apparently his buddy is also deaf. I think it is wonderful how people overcome their handicaps. I shall say a prayer for them.

It occurs to me that perhaps it isn't a deaf, gay couple next door. Perhaps they just can't hear over the unending din of traffic. Did I mention the hotel is on I94? Really, it is ON I94. I can hear cops racially profiling without even having my window open.

I had to call my buddy Fuad down at the desk since he didn't provide me with the internet password. It was clear he was happy to hear from me as the code was given to me amidst a deep and labored sigh. I reminded Fuad he could have just given it to me at check in, being I plopped my laptop case on the counter at that time. He declared fatwa on me, but was killed by a truck delivering roast beef to Arby's on the way upstairs. This hotel in the highway thing is dangerous. It really wasn't a big deal, as they just chucked him in the back of the truck with all the other semi-dead vagrants and prositutes that become "Good Mood Food."

By the way, the code was apr2. I wonder what it will be tomorrow. These types of things keep me up at night. I wish I never asked.

So far, for 99 bucks and tax, this room, and yes, the whole night is pretty much exactly what I was expecting. So I am not disappointed. I will roll out of bed tomorrow morning after a sleepless night and I will be fresh as a turd at the bottom of the compost heap. I will drink coffee that tastes like burning which will be pumped directly from a Uranium 238 powered carafe and be so hot that it will denude my gums and burn off my finger prints at the same time. Adding cream will only increase the chance for botulism or BSE. It will not help the coffee.

Surprisingly, though, after blowing on it twice and allowing it to cool for exactly the amount of time it takes to toast a bagel will render it so cold as to be undrinkable. The flavor will morph into an intoxicating blend of burned rubber and peat moss.

My ten minute drive will be 30 because there will be an accident. There is always an accident. How could there not be? There's a frigging hotel in the middle of the expressway! My meeting will suck. My subsequent meetings will suck. I will have to take a crap all day because I don't have "home field advantage" and my internal clock will be all messed up. I will forget to take my pills and so will have to take them tomorrow evening, ensuring I will be up all night again and if by chance I do fall asleep, I will have night terrors involving a bunny fellating a bear in a hotel room. Mental note, invent a time machine, go back in time, stop yourself from ever watching "The Shining". Gouge out your six-year-old eyes if you have to! It will be worth it.

And so, this brings me to the end of my relaxing blog post. An old couple in a Buick just drove into my room. The wife is yelling really loud at the husband who is trying to blame it on Obamacare. This should be fun.