Roadside Inn

I don't think there's anything more like a fart in the wind than a roadside inn.

Everything is fleeting. The Interstate doesn't even want to be here. No one stops because they want to. Sleep being one of those annoying necessities. Do people even make love at Roadside Inns? It's a guardrail for drifting tumbleweeds--whisking scrambleweeds.

I sat in the Mexican themed restaurant of this roadside Inn and loathed the plastic decor. Under a fake palm tree, and smack dab in the middle of the room, there's a trickling water fountain. Duct tape sticks its power cord to the floor. Somewhere someone could probably use that electricity. Somewhere some monkey and a family of iguana lost their home so we could drill the resources to make a crappy, plastic fountain. Now no matter how deep I dig, I can't seem to make it matter.

At roadside Inns you'll never read about the old couple who ate breakfast every Sunday. No one comes back. If there is a regular he's an aberration. He makes families want to get back in there minivans and keep driving.

But I'm good. About to drift to ESPN. One person in one room of the roadside inn.