Hotel

At least it was a hotel once. I think that's the corner of Clarkson at West. I was just down there again recently and took more pictures of it. Is there anything suggestive about that sign, you know, like an upside down thermometer. Or maybe it was their sly way of telling those in the know that they charged by the hour:


And as I wonder about the suggestiveness of the signs I take a moment to clear the alleged brand name Viagra spam out of my mailbox. I'd like to see them team up with the people who run those scams in Africa who say that they need your bank account number to transfer in millions of dollars and they'll give you a cut for your trouble. Maybe they fill your bank account full of boner pills instead of cash. They used to run that scam in physical letters before the days of email. My father would come home with envelopes covered in these exotic stamps from exotic countries, and the letter inside was very official and regal looking with a raised multi-colored coat of arms printed on this very fancy watermarked paper, yet it was all the same bullshit about some Nigerian prince who was reaching out to the old man because he was the only person in the world who could come to the aid of royalty.

And no, the old man never fell for it.

"The old man?" I'm beginning to sound like Jean Shepherd.

Oh god I just blashphemed. I just made a WAY unworthy comparison between myself and the man who gave us Flick, Schwartz, Scut Farkus, and a spinning top that still might be spinning today somewhere in the sewers underneath Indiana. If you want some fine reading, get off this site and pick up some Shepherd.

Or maybe some Pinkwater. I can't say enough about Daniel Manus Pinkwater. Hell, he's the author of the only book mentioned in my profile here, Fat Men From Space.

Douglas Adams goes without saying.

And thus ends today's edition of "Literary Corner."