Hotel It Like It Is

Hotels are weird, like I say in this week’s Dustinland comic. On one hand, they’re really fun and awesome — at least, the nice ones are. Everything seems fresh and new. You never have to clean. The beds are huge. The pillows are nice. There’s free cable. The curtains keep it darker than a cave on a moonless night. And people bring food to room and you can eat it in bed.

On the other hand, there’s grossness. The grossness of the unknown. Who was here? Who did what? In this very spot? Just last night? And who’s next door? What’s that sound? Who is doing that all night? Does anyone else have the key to my room? Can the maid just bust in at any time? What are these weird scratches on the door? Why is the food so shitty if it’s this expensive? How come the NY Post said the hotel pools in NYC are dirtier than the public pools in the parks?

Hotels. Love em or hate em or both at the same time. Either way, it’s always nice to come home.

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2 responses to “Hotel It Like It Is

  1. The guy who prosecuted Mike Tyson for rape reported in his memoir that investigators confiscated the bedclothes of the hotel room where the assault took place, looking for DNA evidence. I can’t remember if they found anything relevant to the case, but they did find a disgustingly diverse collection of DNA from different sources on the bedspread. From then on, I’ve avoided touching hotel bedspreads with my naked skin.

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