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October 26, 2003
I will fuck you the fuck up
Comment spam. I despise that shit.
The C.L.I.T. site has been redone with the prettiness of Blog Body Shop web-fu. Michelle, have I mentioned how much you rawk lately? Place is still lacking in content, but I imagine my sister will get around to adding some shortly. And I still need to create thumbnails for those images. . .
And I'm sure it's something else I'm forgetting.
Title from Motel Hell: The Regency Hotel has had its ups and downs -- way downs:
I was never afraid of elevators until I rode in the elevators at the Regency Hotel. There are three of them, equally spooky, lit with bare white fluorescent bulbs. Carved swastikas and gang symbols scar the wood-paneled walls. The emergency-phone compartments hold dangling wires, pistachio shells, cigarette butts, scorched pizza crusts and broken crack pipes. Some floor buttons are missing, and many of the rest don't light up when pressed. When the elevators ascend, they squeak and rattle and creep along, as if they are being pulled up by hundreds of chinchillas running on treadmills. Going down is worse. Much worse. Going down, the elevators don't rattle and squeak -- they shudder and groan as the lights flicker. And they are prone to sudden, blood-chilling plunges, like small planes hitting air pockets in a thunderstorm. The elevators behave as if possessed. They randomly freeze between floors long enough for claustrophobia to prowl the edges of your composure. They jolt to a halt on floors where no one has called them, doors sliding open to reveal empty hallways.I was never sure where these elevators were taking me during a recent Saturday stay at the Regency. But Lee was. Lee is the Regency's self-appointed elevator operator.
[. . .] A minute passed, and then I heard squeaks in the central shaft growing slowly louder, accompanied by a coarse voice spewing profanity. The squeaks stopped at my floor. The muffled swearing continued. I heard a warbling chime, and the doors slid open. There stood Lee. He was tweaking -- jaw grinding, eyes vibrating beneath a watch cap low on his brow, ratty black T-shirt pulled tight over the crystal-cut muscles of a natural athlete on speed. Lee looked me over. "I will fuck you the fuck up!" were his first words to me.
By David Holthouse, in Denver's alt-paper Westword.
In a really, really foul mood today, so I'd greatly appreciate any tourists starting shit. Tearing some anonymous stranger on the 'net a new one would do wonders for making me feel better, I'm sure.
Posted by Aaron at October 26, 2003 09:31 AM
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