HOTEL REVIEW: East Hartford Econolodge

I don't remember now if the fighter was Harry Greb1, but there was a turn of the century boxer, an infamously dirty fighter, a fighter known for ruining younger stronger fighters via outright nastiness; whichever old name in a book I read about once this was, the interesting thing was this fighter's training regimen was opposite the archetypal monastic prize fighter prep with the mountain running and abstinence, this fighter, (Greb or not), would drink straight whiskey, chain smoke, and pick the meanest prostitutes he could find, taking them on two at a time.  This routine I have fondly titled, Irish Martial Arts.

 What's the point?  It might be that this kind of cruel living gave this fighter the vengeful spirit necessary to do his work in the ring.  Osmosis.  

So, again, what's the point?  The point is: I have a good life.  work.  girl I love.  dogs.  peace.  fat and happy.  

I don't want to write nasty stuff.  But I'm good at it.  
Enter East Hartford, Connecticut; factories and smoke stacks; Econolodges in depressed areas; long days, unheralded work; it all puts me in Greb-Mode, providing the juice to write some of what I'm interested in, and then I go home from a place like where I sit just now, and whatever I wrote I don't care, I'm not there anymore, I'm cuddling at home watching Downton Abbey; it's like dancing with the devil in the pale moon light, but part-time. 
I come into an Econolodge, and see this:

Mm-mm, Good.  Ready to work.  Fine and prepped for going somewhere.  Wanting to write something, because I'm here, I have nothing else to do in this room; so let the world I'm in for this few days give me something, Greb-style.

1 (I don't confirm on the internet, leave something like Greb to my memory.  There's no such thing as a Quiz Whiz in 2012, what with Google and Wiki making everyone a nerd.  Right or wrong, these journals don't need to be confirmed; it is okay to just write, "I think it was Harry Greb", as if I were in conversation, or writing in a notebook in an Econolodge.)

2. Stopped at an all diesel station today.  Walked in to pay for the fill-up, and even as I stepped to the counter I see the clerk kneel down behind the counter.  At first I think maybe he thinks he's about to get robbed.  I say, "Hi."  No answer.  Then he's up again.  Then down again.  
I stand there.  And stand there.  I can hear the clerk whispering. He's praying.  
This is a beauty of a scene.  I wait quietly, and when finally he breaks and crosses to me, he seems to be genuinely thankful at the respect shown, as if my standing quietly for an extra few minutes was all that respectful, he can't know I'm stealing his life for later writing.  He's given me a gift, or lucky timing has.  Praise, Allah.  
There's a disconnect between anti-religious thought, (of which I quite understand, being irreligious), and the quiet kind staid behavior of every single praying person I have ever met.  I understand it might just be AA to people, or Greb-Mode; that I could walk out to the end of my road and eat 37 pistachio nuts every third day, and in the act, the growing pattern stitched into my life, might in and of itself bring me peace -- that everyone wants to be a Jedi and touch higher power, but I can't help but think religious people, those that perform rituals, are better off than those unanchored souls like the people I saw walking around Hartford today.  If only finding a purpose wasn't so dangerous.  
And in this is why I think I need Greb-mode and the Econolodge to write certain things, because I'm not afraid to be judged in this mode.  I'm slumming it, so throw it all out there.

3. A dilapidated factory on the bad side of town.  SUVs with chrome rims.  A suspicious import/export business on the sign out front... What am I doing here?  Meeting DeNiro to figure out how to sell back stolen bearer bonds to Van Sandt?, (you know, the ones we ripped from that armored truck).
I should climb to the top of the smoke stack, and take pictures of Pacino and the rest of the LAPD.. "You know what they watchin?  They watchin us.. L..A..P..D, Okay, Mothafuckas.  This crew.. is good."

home sweet home.
 4. here's a contentious frag Econolodge makes so:
Remember people doing the bit about how  married couples slept in separate beds in movies and TV from the 40s and 50s, or (even better) separate rooms.  Squaresville!
But hold on, aren't separate beds hot?  Nothing against cuddling, (I guess), but Ladies, how improved would your sex life be if that slob laying next to you wasn't farting on you all night.
Hot witching hour trysts - your room or mine?   

A little confinement goes a long way.

Confinement and time. 

Here's how uncool, unsexy progressives are: When I was a freshman in high school, we, (as a class), went to a safe sex demonstration where a sixty year old woman wearing power crystals told us, (a bunch of fifteen year-olds), about rimjobs.  I'm still dreaming about necking, and Granny's teaching ass to mouth.  This is pre-internet.  This was public school.

here's what sex-ed should have been:

Lesson One -- Confinement and Time

Young gents, are you into necking?  Cool.  Stick with that.  if you want that girl, worry about her shoulders and hair.  And take your time.  The rest will unfold itself.  Don't take lessons in love from power crystal donning hippies -- they've been so long breaking down walls that they probably don't remember getting goose bumps from closeness.