When I travel, the hotel is critical. Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m not a total diva, but I do need a definite comfort level, otherwise I start feeling a bit homesick. It’s just too hard to be away from the kidlets, the soulmate, and my digs otherwise. The hotel here in Denver is definitely well above average, but there have been a few glitches.
Exhibit A) Upon arrival, there was a stiff pair of men’s briefs in my top dresser drawer. Ewwww, had total flashes from Blue Crush where they were maids and found that condom, and brought it out to the offender (the big football player guy on the beach). This was a serious “need tongs” (not thongs) moment.
Exhibit B) Last night, while trying to avail myself of the ever-important pay-per-view—the crucial linchpin while traveling and attending conferences—it simply wouldn’t cooperate. This, of course, after the public relations person here had given me a free one-night rental to make up for the stiffy undies. So, no dice; no movie. Bummer.
I sink into advancing through channels, resigned to life without a current release movie—or “ahead of release” or whatever it is they bill these hotel pay-per-view films as being. I find a very emotional, intense 09/11 special. I’m completely rapt. And what should happen, but?
Exhibit C) My television becomes possessed by a porno demon. My programming is disrupted, and without me so much as hitting the remote, the pay-per-view begins scrolling through the variety of porno flicks available to hotel viewers. It’s like “Boobs Gone Wild!” and on it goes—over and over, as I watch the TV assume a life of its own, scrolling through these various selections semi-demonically. Am I using the clicker? No. Have I selected a thing? No. But my television begins moving, free-form, through about twelve different XXX flicks, and buttocks and boobs appear on the screen. And dang if the stupid thing doesn’t start CLICKING ORDER!!! All without me selecting a damn thing! The television has assumed its own life, is acting on its own spirit—it even occurs to me that a neighbor might be really into this stuff, but his remote is somehow working on MY television.
I phone the desk. “Um, hello, my television is possessed by a porno demon,” I say.
The woman chuckles. “Uh, huh, you freak.” She doesn’t say it, but I swear I can hear her thoughts crackle over the line.
I begin narrating, as the screen scrolls through the various film choices, as I see boobs and buttocks and personal parts. I’m going, “Oh my GOSH!!! It’s selecting, “Babe-A-Licious on Ice!”
My hotel clerk responds—quite calmly, I’ll grant her, “Well, when it finds Debbie Does Dallas, I’m going to be really afraid.”
I say, “This is real, and my television is now officially porno-possessed.”
“Ma’am, unplug your TV and reboot,” she tells me—as if she’s heard this plenty of other times, by the way.
Maybe it’s just quite late; maybe I’m just quite tired, but the fact that I’m watching my television perform free-form actions—all of which are directing it toward charging these nefarious flicks to my credit card—just doesn’t leave me very calm.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll see if that works.”
Moments later, my TV is released. It’s as if it’s SINGING, “I Shall be Released.”
No more porno demons.
I phone the desk woman back. “It works now,” I say.
She chortles. “Good, Ms. Knight. I’m glad you’re free of your porno demons.”
And that leaves me with exhibit D) My last night in the hotel, still in possession of my free movie coupon—which is meant to ameliorate the stiffy-nasty-male-undies… still isn’t redeemable, because I still can’t engage the movie function.
I find more 9/11 programming, find an A.J. Hammer examination of why Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes hid their baby… and ultimately discover a TNT movie. Ah, life in a hotel. So nice: No soulmate battling me for the remote, no reason not to watch asinine programming. Life on the road, as tiring as it may be, has its moments.