The research I had done online indicated that it would be another fun, quirky motel off the beaten path of chain lodging monotony.
I pulled into the motel, on a shifty swath of Colfax Avenue.
Pock-marked Manson Family ranch hands hung around, sitting without purpose outside of their rooms.
Fishing I suppose.
I stepped out of the van and into the sketch.
It was a humid summer night.
The motel office leaked the clatter of loud televised trash.
Its lobby floor was a carpeted mistake.
Like a stained blanket used by poor girls to wrap their abandoned babies.
A sullen matted poodle stared through me, its broken leg bandaged.
The manager, a moaning man standing over a toilet, squeezed out the remaining drops of his urine.
I stared back at the poodle.
The manager stumbled through the open bathroom door.
He was a wrinkled and pickled Asian man.
His arm was fucked up and bent.
Like a rubber weiner.
Proof that dogs do resemble their owners.
I asked him if there was a reservation under my name.
He said no.
"You want room?"
The stench of liquor and bad dental hygiene shot past my nose.
I tried again. About the reservation. Did someone call?
"No. You want room?"
His breath was too much.
We weren't getting anywhere, despite my third and final attempt to find the reservation that the movie had gone out of their way to make.
An audience of bloodthirsty psychobillies watched with heated eyes.
I got the fuck out of there.
I thanked God that they didn't have my reservation.
And for my Grammy*.
* Best Song Written For Visual Media
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