I'm pretty drunk on 3-dollar-a-bottle wine right now, so I take no responsibility for this post. It was suggested by someone else and I have no idea what I'm going to write.
The first thing I need to mention is this -- you guys all failed me miserably on my flight here. I was supposed to be sitting by the window with a winsome beauty in the seat next to me, but what I got instead was a huge guy who liked to golf. Not only that, he liked to talk about golf. A lot.
He liked to talk about particular courses and particular holes, all of which I really tried hard to discourage, but that didn't seem to work. It never does with these sorts of people. So finally I pointedly ignored him and loaded up a season two episode of The Office and watched Michael trash the warehouse on Valentine's Day. I am not sure if the guy actually stopped talking or not but I didn't give a shit. I did give a shit however, when he co-opted my armrest. Fat bastard.
When I finally got off the smelly-ass plane, I walked down to baggage claim where all the Limo drivers were standing with their little signs. There was one really tall Lurch-lookin' mofo holding a sign that just said "SICKO." I tried like hell to get a picture of it, but he was getting pretty annoyed at my blatantly transparent attempts to surreptitiously take his picture with my camera phone.
I did manage to finally get a decent shot, but the shitty "high-speed" connection in this hotel won't let me upload it for some reason.
Once I got to the hotel and checked in, it turns out that floor number 8 is really broken. If you get in the elevator, all the other floors work as designed, but floor 8 does not. If you choose eight, what happens is this:
The elevator reaches what you can only assume to be floor 8 - given that the number 8 is illuminated - and the inside elevator doors open, and you start to walk toward what should by all rights be a magic archway that leads you to the hallway of floor 8 and then right before you ram your skull into steel you realize that you are being denied by an additional set of internal blue steel doors that say "sorry assknob. not today." Don't ask me how I know this, but I am now typing this from the 12th floor.
For more than 200 bills a night, I expected more from my room. My carpet is kinda thread-bare and my internet connection is ass. The clothes iron works ok, and nobody seems to have pissed in it, so it's a step up from the Scranton Marriott.
I'll tell you what though. Free wine (cheap or not) and 70 degrees at 8:30 pm makes for a nice night when you just left -4 degrees.