Notes From Five Hotels


Man, the lobby was a tease. Talk about a bait and switch kind of thing. My God, I felt like Elvis checking in. Everybody feels Elvis checking in...but the room. Room is small and does not have the fountain or the swans they have down there. That ten million dollar check for the renovation didn't see anything past the reception desk; although, to be fair, the swan theme is echoed on the towels in the bathroom. I keep waiting for some giant five-year-old's hand to reach in through the window and rearrange the little man with the pen and notepad lying on the miniature bed in the tiny room.

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Okay, every hotel room will seem small compared to an apartment. So with my expectations set to scale, I can enjoy this place, right? Right. I am a giant. I am ten times taller than a refrigerator. I can crush your tiny bottles of vodka with my enormous hand. Even your planet's cans of soda are tiny compared to my gargantuan arms and claws.

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Funny boy is now officially depressed man. My idea of daring was to tell the woman who came to get my laundry that she, "Should hang out with me and see how bad the videos on the MTV are." She spoke no English, makes a fraction of what she deserves, is probably raising six kids on her own, and yet clearly takes pity on me. I will try to cheer myself up with a brochure on local whale watching expeditions, soft core porn, and ice cream.

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A whale will never see a hotel room. And a whale will never care about that anyway. He would do a spy hop, see the true path he wishes to follow, and he would bid all of you semi famous catalog type of model girls in the lobby a fine farewell with a wave of his pectoral fin. He would have that kind of laid back grin on his whale face...well, ladies...all that means is he's using his baleen to sift plankton from the water. Trust me. I should know, I did a seven page report on whales (mammals) in the fifth grade.

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I am so bored I can't see straight, and every room I stay in has a mini bar that is free to me, but I'm on the wagon. So I drink little cokes and eat every candy bar, convincing myself I'm really socking it to the man. Feel nauseated. Oh, almost forgot: I found God. He was in the drawer on the nightstand all along. Up until now, the only place I've looked for faith was guides to area attractions, junk food, and barely naked porn stars. Most of Bible is confusing, but enjoy story about guy's faith being tested. They really pushed that guy around. Job, I think his name was.

About the author:

Dan Kennedy is a writer living in New York. A frequent contributor to McSweeney's, his work has also appeared in Bookforum and BIG Magazine. Crown Books will publish EVIDENTLY I KNOW EVERYTHING in 2002.