I'm trapped in an Hampton Inn hotel room 20 miles east of Atlanta. I could go without ever seeing another piece of cherry wood in my life.
Too drunk to drive, too alone to care. But wait. Hampton Inn has an extensive selection of cable channels. I haven't watched this much television - in one sitting - since I had mono. I'm enthralled with the Time Life infomercial. Greg Brady and some sex kitten in a tight-knit sweater are pitching a compilation of forgotten soft rock and disco ballads. Music from the 1970s draws out my romantic qualities. I must buy.
Before I commit four easy payments of $29.99, I ask myself if there are any other dubious products worth purchasing. I flip, flip, flip again. My clicker lands me on C-SPAN. It's a 25th anniversary celebration show. Some dope, Joel Lawrence Steinberg, Fairfax Virginia's preeminent mental midget, is reading a trite self-authored essay about the virtues of C-SPAN.
Joel gives me a headache.
I recall that my dear pal, the inimitable Dain Pascocello, has also contributed an essay to C-SPAN's contest. Read it here, America.