Today’s soundtrack: well your daddy’s rich, and your ma is good-looking....
Today at 11:02pm: Taking a 30-minute shower for no reason other than that I can


I check in around 10-something pm. The clerk is a well-heeled gentleman who looks super-soft, like the last guy in the world you’d want backing you up in a bar fight. Calls me “sir” and all that.

“How many room keys would you like sir?”

“Wishful thinking,” I hear myself mutter out loud. The clerk doesn’t say anything. “Just one,” I say, and he nods, animated back into activity.

“Keys to the minibar, sir?”

“I’m good.”

Morning comes. I attend parts of my stupid conference and spend the rest of the time exploring the resort.

To say I am staying in a nice hotel is a fucking understatement. Posh doesn’t begin to describe the joint, I mean I wouldn’t be surprised to see Roman slaves walking around. If it wasn’t for The Corporation footing the bill I’d never see the inside of a place like this.

When you don’t have bad weather to consider, you can build some truly remarkable structures. One of the big features of this hotel is that the line between inside and outside is blurred. There is a markedly huge lack of walls at certain entry points, so the landscaping and the marble floors blend into each other. I tried to capture this feeling on film (on pixel, whatever) but those shots didn’t come out so hot. As with women, I’m not good with lighting.

The “work” portion of the trip was stultifyingly boring. As usual I lied about what I do for a living so I wouldn’t have to have any stupid work conversations. The lectures made you want to throw yourself from a cliff. Sample lecture topic: “Can consumers really tell the difference between cold- and hot-filled aseptic juices?”

The maids clean up after me twice a day. My room has a television roughly the size of my car, with a playstation attached. The bathroom is a slightly smaller version of Scarface’s. Water pressure like a fire hose and as much hot water as you want.

The towels all smell like butterscotch. I resist the temptation to stuff them into my bag and hop in the rental whip. I want to point the steering wheel towards Mexico, crank the Allman Brothers and smash the gas into the floor. There’s a difference between living free and living for free, and at the end of the day it’s the former I’m interested in.