why

I’m an adult. I’m employed. I try to keep my credit card debt at the reasonable level of “roughly what 4 years of college cost in the late 90s at an expensive AF state school.”

Why, then, DO I ALWAYS TRY TO STAY AT THE FUCKING CHEAPEST HOTEL WHEN I TRAVEL

Our family was never cheap, per se. We like stuff. Before the Macy’s deli at Pentagon City was closed for health code violations—yes, they had one, and Pentagon City used to be THE MALL to see and be seen because Tysons was too fucking far—we regularly indulged in $19.99/lb Prosciutto di Parma (I had a friend who pronounced it “pross-KWEE-toe” the first time they saw it), which would be consumed within 5 minutes of arriving home. A baller lifestyle if there ever was one.

Back to the original question. I suppose that if I’m traveling and paying a decent amount to get wherever I’m going and for whatever I’m doing once I get there, then yeah, hotel costs come last in my mind. That’s stupid, I’ve come to realize. What really proved this to me was where I stayed this past weekend, when I drove to Georgia to see some cars make a lot of left turns on an oval that’s so worn out, they had to actually stop the race for 20 minutes to patch the track on Sunday. My favorite driver doesn’t race anymore, ever since his involuntary retirement, but let’s not get into that.

This fucking hotel.

Sure, they never look as good as they do in the photos—just like 100% of “influencers.” Boom, roasted.

Why, though, would you choose to own and operate such an establishment as part of your family livelihood (it was clearly the son of the owner checking guests in, as he had to tear himself away from his phone to do so through the bulletproof window) if you don’t give a rat’s ass about hospitality?

The morning after I raked the hotel over the coals in my response to Expedia’s cursory “how’s it going” email that they send every time you check into a hotel, I saw the disgruntled patriarch walking the perimeter of the building, glaring at everyone, while the rest of the family attempted housekeeping duties. I detailed the property’s shortcomings an additional time in an Expedia review, where I delighted readers with not only a callout of the room number and the curiously stained furniture, but also notes that guests can expect such amenities as the aforementioned bulletproof window, no lobby access (and therefore no “breakfast” despite it being advertised), vintage furniture straight from the dumpster, and DNA worthy of a Gus Grissom investigation. I eagerly await a canned response that says they’re “addressing the issues” just like for the 20+ other one-star reviews.

When sleeping in your car leads to a more restful night than a roof over your head and… well, who knows what under your feet (I refused to walk around barefoot), that became the last straw. I didn’t actually sleep in my car this time, although I looked out the window and checked it once every hour because (1) the curtains didn’t close anyway and (2) there was a lot of noise coming from the parking lot, which (3) could’ve been some local ruffians looking to steal my CDs and sell them for money to fuel their drug addiction. Thank you, Chris Rears, for that last item. #dadfacts

The moral of the story is that from now on, no more wire hangers, and no more shitty hotels. Seacrest out.